


The Flat

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Sex, Barely any mention of Eurus or Mary, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Times, Friendship, Hazy Memory, Healing, I just didn't want to, M/M, Misunderstandings, No Villains - I just wanted diabetes of the feels, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Togetherness, for science, learning things, making things better, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: Everything is finally over and the last foe has been defeated. There is nothing left to do but rebuild what has been destroyed and move forward. Sherlock Holmes isn't exactly certain how to go about it, but he begins where everything important began, at home.





	1. 221 B Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> Series 4 was ... a lot. Some people loved it and some people hated it. Some people weren't satisfied and other people got everything they dreamed of. I'm never content, and as far as I'm concerned, enough is never enough. I want more. I want Johnlock to be real so I'm ignoring everything that annoyed me or didn't make sense to me and moving on with things.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> I would also like to thank MyFirstIsTheFourth for her endless good humour and willingness to beta for me even though she doesn't have to because she is so busy but nonetheless she makes time.

The flat was a wreck. Plaster dust covered everything, rising up in puffy clouds whenever anything was shifted. “Good thing there’s a great bloody hole in the wall,” remarked John cheerfully, chucking a piece of their neighbour’s sofa back through the rough opening and into the large disposal bin waiting on the street. Mycroft had packed the residents of the entire building up, temporarily relocating them and their remaining possessions into a large townhouse in a different part of London. The neighbours were now on a government sponsored vacation while their building was repaired. “Imagine how long this would take, otherwise.”

Sherlock snorted out a laugh and kept sorting through the debris. John had been here since dawn, working hard to clear the mess. Sherlock felt a bit strange working alongside the man but privately admitted that he was grateful for John’s presence. His back and legs were still sore from the blast, and he knew very well that John had taken his strongest pain meds before coming to the flat. He didn’t know what they were trying to prove, acting as if they hadn’t been blown right out of a building and onto the cars across the street. He supposed they were just _being British_ \- since none of their hurts were visible, they may as well pretend they didn’t exist.

Unspoken or not, they still helped each other with their bandages. They already had a wordless pattern to their day. John arrived at Baker Street shortly after Sherlock, sans the baby thanks to the exclusive and high-end _Friends_ babysitting service that Mycroft had vetted, each of them silently removing their shirts and trousers to allow access to the trickier plasters. Many of their wounds were impossible to cover without assistance, limbs and muscles too abused to bend enough or stretch enough to reach. It was like a silent pact between the two of them, a suffering they endured together instead of apart, a painful rebirth into their new lives.

Neither man said anything about the darkest parts of their recent past, both choosing to work on the positive aspects instead. They could have torn into each other with well-justified recriminations and accusations but frankly, neither John nor Sherlock had it in him to be angry anymore. They were tired. Their emotional wounds were complicated and would take time to heal. John seemed particularly to suffer from residual guilt over his own violent responses and Sherlock for once did not try to remove those unhappy feelings. He _had_ been hurt by John, deeply wounded, far more than the physical damage he’d endured.

Sherlock had _sacrificed_ himself for John’s sake so many times, and the doctor had thanked Sherlock with isolation and pain. The supportive voice in his head had fallen silent, leaving him alone and floundering for guidance. The shock and misery of being the repository for all of John’s hatred, anger, and blame, the overload of emotion caused by it all had come close to shattering Sherlock into pieces that could never be put right ever again. It had nearly pushed him to the point where _John=unhappiness_ but that was an equation that did not work for Sherlock. Luckily for him, John himself agreed and was doing his utmost to heal Sherlock’s inner wounds by sincerely applying huge amounts of very open affection and devotion directly onto their fractured friendship. He gave unstintingly of himself now, more dedicated and loyal than even when they’d been at the pinnacle of their long friendship with one another.

Fixing 221 B Baker Street was therapeutic for them both. Sherlock wasn’t certain but it felt like reparative surgery. Together, they were discarding all the broken pieces of their life and making it new again, stronger, healthier. Under their dual guidance, Mycroft’s people removed everything from the flat. All of it was boxed up and sent away to be professionally cleaned or properly disposed of while the interior damage was dealt with, all at Mycroft’s personal expense. It was agreed all around that _he_ was largely responsible for all the trauma and death, and that the least Mycroft could do by way of reparations was ensure that some of the collateral damage was taken care of. Physical damages were easy but how Mycroft was going to make up for the emotional traumas he’d unknowingly set into motion was beyond even Sherlock’s ability to ken. _Eurus could probably figure it out if she hadn’t already._

Sherlock had no intention of asking her. He understood why she’d shut herself away inside her mind. _It was just easier. He would have done it too, had he the ability. Time would go by without needing to be filled. Eurus was able to come out of her shell at will. She wasn’t trapped inside her mind, she just lived there._ Sherlock’s sibling was disinterested in everything, except when there was music to listen to. Sherlock was content with that outcome, for now. He was content with a great many things, in fact. He had a sister when once he’d had no idea of her existence but she played no greater part in his life than she had before. She was an abstract concept much of the time, one that he worked to try and understand, to figure out how to connect with, a task complicated further by her current location. Eurus remained in Sherrinford and Sherlock was back at Baker Street, or would be.

Brilliant though she was, Sherlock’s sister had been wrong. Not about the intercourse, Sherlock had indeed _finally_ had sex, but about a minor detail. As he himself often did, she’d gotten one tiny point incorrect. _He didn’t have a female lover, no, not he. Women were not, nor had ever been his area_. Sherlock had finally lost his virginity to the only gender that aroused him, _male_. He had given it to John Watson that night not so long ago, when John had finally crumbled under the weight of his own mistakes, grief, and anger, and had allowed Sherlock to hold him as he wept. It had been damp, visceral, and more than a little messy. The doctor had left Sherlock’s favourite dressing gown stained with snot, tears, and even drool. The detective hadn’t complained nor would he. Sherlock remembered how he’d allowed his fingers to swirl over the warm soft patch of skin on John’s neck, trying to sooth his best friend in a way that did not trespass on the rigid boundaries of their friendship. His feelings for John were complicated, tangled, and in some places, uncertain. That single touch had led to others, most initiated by John himself until they’d fanned the spark between them into an inferno and _it_ had happened.

Possibly.

Sherlock didn’t recall most of it beyond _The Embrace,_ unfortunately. There were a great many disjointed images stored that had that particular time stamp on them, that evening at least. The sequences were off, and he hadn’t had any success sorting that file out. The last few years had taxed his mental resilience greatly and Sherlock was glad that they no longer had to deal with or discuss the larger than life villains that had plagued them both with hardship and misery for so long. They were all dead now or at least inactive. _Had he called Mycroft and made some kind of demand?_ He had vague memories of poorly lit offices and paperwork that hadn’t made him annoyed. There were a lot of impressions of John, primitive, emotional ones. Sherlock decided to deal with those memories later, he was in no way prepared to sort his feelings out. There were other sense memories too, ones of heat, sweat, a bit of pain, and a feeling of pure contentment. _Bliss?_ He was _pretty_ sure the rest had happened. Even the bits where he was almost sure he’d kissed John, he couldn’t be _absolutely_ certain.

Sherlock had been in less than peak condition for a very long time. He’d barely had time to recover from his ordeals from the last couple of years. He had never really spoken to anyone about how he used to hear John's voice in his head, and certainly had mentioned nothing now that it was gone. _The voice_ had helped him survive his torture but had been a bit of a problem when he was free because Sherlock’s hallucinations were graphic and life-like, and he’d had far too many recently, so many in fact that he often had difficulty telling where his vibrant imagination took off and where reality took over. Sherlock was ashamed to admit that he had been high as hell that day, not on anything illegal but the beating he’d endured had warranted the strongest of painkillers and he had been in the middle of a crash when John had broken down. He didn’t refer to _that night_ and John didn’t either. It was as if it hadn’t happened, except that Sherlock was pretty certain that it had.

It was difficult to say because so much of his reality had been fragmented and then put back together, pieces that had once fit neatly no longer able to stay snug by their associated memories, forced open and laid out properly for the first time in his entire life by recollections of his sister, and the strange familial ties that drove her to reach out in ways that made sense to her, if to no one else. Fragments of Victor were mixed in there, the pain of his loss still too sharp for Sherlock to handle, so he kept those in a special room, not hidden, but waiting for some later time when his current life was more understandable and less coloured by turmoil.

Sherlock stayed sober after _The Embrace_ , as he kept referring to it in his head. For him, it had been a momentous event and he would never forgive himself for not being able to recall what might have been the most significant night of his life. Using drugs was no longer possible. Eurus flayed him open with a glance, destroying his defences, and exposing his weaknesses with a tilt of her head. All the reasons he’d given himself for giving in time and time again weren’t good enough any longer. Without a word, Eurus trampled on his flawed logic, so he endured the physical stresses of detox without complaint, knowing he had only himself to blame for falling, but no longer feeling the same internal call to fall yet again despite how his body wanted more. _It hurt, staying clean, but changes were necessary if healing was to happen, and he needed to heal. They all did_.

Sherlock thought of his return from Sherrinford. One of the very first things he’d done when he came home was to seek out Molly Hooper. He’d found her at work, stoically filling out forms on her clipboard, her nose as red as her eyes. Sherlock knew she’d be doing her job as best she could despite her personal upset, so without hesitation, he strode right over to her. In front of everyone, Sherlock caught her in a tight hug, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You would have died if I hadn’t done what I did. _She would have killed you_. I’m so sorry Molly. I’ve never wanted to hurt you like that.”

Molly was his friend, a true friend. She wanted more from him, yes she did, but _only_ if he gave it. She’d never once tried to take his affections by force, and he wagered that of all the people that had manoeuvred to gain power over him via affection, her love was possibly the purest, and was _never_ a means to an end. Molly felt what she felt and that was it. She was something he could never be, _a naturally good person_. He could aspire to be good, and perhaps had begun as potentially good, but there was no changing his past, nor his future, so all he could do was offer her everything he was able to give her, and do it right then, “I do love you.” _Not a lie, just not what she needed, what she wanted_. Somehow he knew this, much like he’d known his sister had had a lover when he was deducing her. Molly didn’t need _him_ , she needed her own perfect half, her own John Watson.

“As a friend.” Molly didn’t sound bitter, but she also wasn’t happy. “I get it.”

Sherlock kissed the top of her head, “I trust only a handful of people in this world, Molly Hooper, and you are one of them. In fact, I trust only one other more than you. You deserve every good thing that life has to offer, and while I wish I could reciprocate the nature of your feelings…”

“It’s John.” Molly sniffled. Sherlock felt her arms go around his body at last, and she rested her head on his chest, “I know it’s John. I just…it was terrifying and cruel and mortifyingly embarrassing but that wasn’t the worst of it. I _know_ you knew.”

 _He had._ He didn’t know what to say. Molly’s feelings for him weren’t a secret, and as the years had passed he’d grown to understand her position very well. _It wasn’t a very nice experience having to watch the one you loved live a happy life with someone else. John had loved Mary. He loved her despite her lies, despite her treachery, and despite her abandonment. John had chosen Mary over Sherlock then, but who would he choose now that she was gone?_ John had tried to push Sherlock towards _The Woman_ ; however, much like Molly, Sherlock’s feelings for Irene Adler were complex yet not sexual. The doctor insisted that Sherlock needed someone to complete him as a person, and Sherlock wanted to tell him how he’d gone through life feeling perfectly together, that is, until he’d met John and understood what he’d been missing. The people John had chosen were admirable, intelligent, capable, and so many other qualities that the doctor was honoured to have captured their interest, and yet, “Yes. It’s John.” She was clearly waiting for more clarification but he didn’t know what to say. “It’s complicated. I am unable to define the changes adequately.”

It was awkward but it was a start. Sherlock clumsily tried to repair the damage his sister had wrought on his relationship with the pathologist. He patted her back and supplied a crisply ironed handkerchief. Generous soul that she was, Molly took it, had a good cry, and then listened attentively as Sherlock explained about Eurus and the horrible games she’d played. It clearly disturbed her, but Molly hugged Sherlock again and told him that she was sad for herself, but happy for Sherlock and for John, adding that she still wanted to help out with Rosie, the only blameless factor in their chaotic lives. Rosie was innocent of all, merely existing in their space, and not a part of the problems that had been growing for years prior to her conception. There wasn’t anything to say about Eurus. _What could anyone say?_

“I really am sorry for all the suffering you’ve undergone. You’ve been a true friend, truer than most. You helped me when there was no one else I could turn to, and you kept my secrets when you could have so easily made your life easier by telling them. You helped John when he was at his lowest, and when I was… _am_ …so very weak. You are the person we both trust without hesitation with our most precious secrets. I owe you many debts, Molly Hooper. Do not forget, Sherlock Holmes owes you a lifetime worth of favours.” _It was a beginning, and by the time he left her, he knew that she knew it too_.

His situation between John had certainly changed, but into what, Sherlock wasn’t certain _. This was always his weakest point_. His long locked away emotions were untrained and wild, running away with him so that he sometimes felt elated, and other times he felt as if he were going to fly apart from the stress of it all. Now that he knew his sister’s true nature it was impossible to pretend that he was anything like her, so he no longer bothered trying to tether the one part of himself that was so very different than his siblings. Of all the Holmes children, Sherlock was the one with the deepest empathy, he just needed to learn how to use it. It would take time but he didn’t have forever.

 _Eurus had it so easy_. Sherlock was ashamed of his thought the second he had it and knew his sister would read it right off his face the next time he saw her. She couldn’t help her emotional detachment and was harmless for now. Sherlock had always referred to his body as _transport_ but for her, it truly was. When she spoke of sex it was with no more fervour than when she spoke of murder or playing music, just statements of facts, expressions of technical accuracy. They were all simply things that she enjoyed. There were no feelings attached to her uncharitable skills. She was an artificial being, functional but completely devoid of impetus without the correct input. Eurus didn’t get bored. She _was_ curious, and if she wanted to know something, she found a way. Currently, there was nothing more she needed so she had shut herself off, and spent most of her time simply sitting. She _could_ feel things, knew pleasure, pain, ecstasy, and rage, but indifferently, not in any way that interested her, not really. Everyone knew there was no way to stop her if she decided to rampage again. The prison was set up with new and different surveillance on multiple levels. If she stepped into any part of the facility that was not an approved area, Eurus would die instantly.

Sherlock wanted to understand her but knew that he never would, not really. Eurus’ skills were of a calibre far above any that he had attained. Despite her unstable mind, she possessed a functional intellect that he doubted he could ever achieve. All Sherlock could do was offer her the things she’d wanted so desperately, yet lacked the ability to ask for. He played with her. Once a week a special task force delivered him to Sherrinford, violin in hand. It seemed that the Crown felt that keeping Eurus pacified was less expensive than dealing with a surly and malcontented established master-villain. Sherlock and the rest of his family had been vetted by all the top security agencies, implanted with tracker chips, and generally treated with protective suspicion. He endured it all for his sibling’s sake. Music soothed Eurus and keeping her satisfied was just safer for the entire country. He even listened to an old collection of records Mummy had dug out, re-familiarizing himself with old notes and techniques. His skills were impressive but he knew he could be so much better, and that Eurus would show him how. Mummy and Papa, and Mycroft too, all of them began to make a habit of spending family time together. It was completely awkward, consisting mostly of wooden silences as everyone sat silently in a row, but they were trying. It was something all the attending Holmes’ needed to overcome and conquer. That was a task for later. Right now there was cleaning and sorting to be done, remodelling to plan, and lives to patch together.

Whatever existed between them _now_ prompted John to include Sherlock in his life as fully as he could. 221 B was temporarily uninhabitable, and Sherlock found himself being moved into John and Mary’s old flat, a portable bed tucked in Rosie’s room just big enough for him to fit into. The doctor continued their habit of just not talking about it, texting Sherlock to inform him that his personal possessions were now at his. John had found a way to begin patching things up with their much-abused friendship. It made him feel a twisting sort of warmth inside when he understood that John trusted him so much now that he would allow Sherlock to be near his only child when she was at her most vulnerable. Mindful of his great honour, Sherlock always slept in a half-doze, ready to be up at any moment to soothe Rosie, change her if she needed it, or feed her in the darkest hours so John could get a night of uninterrupted sleep before work. Sherlock had survived on catnaps for years, so sleeping when the baby slept during the daytime was enough to keep him going day after day.

It was another unspoken agreement that John would go back to being a GP. Their current personal arrangement now didn’t include any money-making opportunities by way of cases. Once again, Sherlock’s services were on hiatus while the government sorted out the mess his sister had caused. It would be a veritable eternity before he was allowed to do what he did best, and if not for the renovations at 221 B Barker Street and Rosie, he would have gone mad with frustration. Sharing child-care responsibilities over the tiny girl with John, and on the rare occasion, Molly, combined with the endless measures required for renovating a listed property, made Sherlock realise he had no spare minutes in which to be bored. Sherlock was grateful for Molly’s involvement, she knew how to explain things to Sherlock in ways he could understand, using terms he was familiar with, and coaching him patiently on how to look after John’s baby.

However, Molly wasn’t always available to babysit or mentor fumbling consulting-detectives-come-nannies. Sherlock had called in several favours at a variety of institutions and had secured the doctor several training sessions with hard-to-obtain instructors, all of whom were privy to the most advanced techniques and equipment. As her CV grew, Doctor Hooper became known to a large assortment of facilities and was well on her way to becoming a renowned consultant in her own right.

Once the building structure had been pronounced safe and sound, all repairs complete, Sherlock had found himself involved in a surprisingly domestic series of projects with John by his side. He and John were picking out replacement wallpaper, choosing from the few available rolls of authentic paper that still existed at auction houses. Four matched the interior of Baker Street perfectly, but obtaining them meant bidding and cash layouts. _Thank goodness Mummy had given them Mycroft’s credit card._ She and Papa were back at home, though they visited quite often, keeping in touch with _all_ their children, and she had retaken the reins over the family fortunes amidst ongoing chastisements over many of Mycroft’s personal choices. It seemed that after faking the death of his sister, keeping her imprisoned on a secret island, then henpecking and pressuring his younger brother so much that Sherlock was driven to use drugs, _another_ secret kept from the Holmes parents, had all added up to Mycroft being in more trouble at home than he’d ever been before.

John was a large healing part of those visits. The small man often receiving useful advice from both seniors about the difficulties in raising a gifted child, as they determined Rosie clearly was, and many cautionary stories about how easily it could all go horrifically wrong, as evidenced by Mycroft and Sherlock each. There wasn’t much they could say about Eurus. That topic was still too raw, too new. Mummy was unsparing with her critique, and both of her sons took her words to heart, but _all_ the generations were committed to doing their best to correct old mistakes and to learn new ways as a family.

Today was one of the last reno days. John was a key part of re-hanging the aforementioned wallpaper, thoughtfully spray-painting the smiley face back on and helpfully reloading the pistol so Sherlock could re-add the bullet holes in the wall. The additional lecture they received from Mrs Hudson was worth it just to hear John giggle again. When the flat was habitable once more, Sherlock began the slow process of moving back in, carting his boxes from John’s home, and feeling sad because it felt like the end of something that wasn’t ready to be over. _He could say nothing and ask for nothing, not from John, not from the man who had been made to pay every sort of price already_. Sherlock needn’t have worried. For the first time since that unspoken night, John was open with him, standing beside Sherlock as he packed his shirts into his suitcase, “I want to come to Baker Street with you, with Rosie, I mean, to stay, not just to visit.” John paused and seemed to lose a bit of confidence, “It’s alright if you feel odd about it, I don’t have to move, I own this house now apparently but after that night…” _John was going to talk about that night_. Sherlock wasn’t prepared. John clearly was, clearing his throat and soldiering forward as he was so good at doing, “That night meant everything to me Sherlock, but it wasn’t right how it happened. I know you were off your head, and so was I. I am so ashamed to say this, but I hardly recall anything…”

“Me either.” Sherlock blurted the words out, “Almost nothing in fact. There wasn’t any…evidence…” he wasn’t sure what more to say. _They’d had sex and neither of them could recall a thing about it. Was that a good indicator of their ongoing compatibility or a bad one?_

His point was well understood because John blushed in a way Sherlock had never witnessed before, “Er, yeah.” He’d done a good deal of research since then, and had acquainted himself on the proper steps to take should he require to _ready himself_. He wasn’t sure if John would ever want to, but as far as Sherlock was concerned, John was the only person in the world he’d ever be intimate that way with, and if John was going to live with him, then sex might be something he’d need to consider being prepared for. John cleared his throat again and looked at his toes. Addressing them, John continued, “I don’t know what you want, not really, or what I want, if I’m going to be truthful. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, and I will probably make a good deal more. What I’m trying to say is this, Sherlock,” John paused and looked into Sherlock’s eyes, “ _How_ we are together, what we’ve said to one another, _it is what it is_ , well, that’s not enough. I want to know what _it_ is, and if _it’s_ the same thing I think it is, well then I’d like more of that…only if you want.” John seemed to have confused himself and visibly went over his own words, checking to see if he’d forgotten anything.

Sherlock stood there and watched John proclaim himself. He felt dizzy and lightheaded. _He needed to understand perfectly_. “You want to not just live _at_ 221 B Baker Street but you want to live _with_ me.” He stressed the word _with_ particularly and watched John’s head nod vigorously. “You have…feelings for me.”

“Yes. That’s it. That’s exactly it.” John was sure of himself again, “ _Feelings_ , lots of them. Have done for a long time.” John stared at his own shoes for a moment before raising his eyes again. “Mary knew. She never said when she was alive, but on the CD…well, you heard her.” Sherlock didn’t agree with everything Mary had said. The people they were _did_ matter, it mattered greatly. John was so many things, and no part of him was unimportant. They certainly weren’t hers. If they belonged to anyone, John and Sherlock belonged to Mrs Hudson, the one person who had supported them unstintingly, the person who openly recognised that John and Sherlock were best when kept together. Mary’s words made no sense. If Sherlock hadn’t been who he was, he never would have become the best friend of such a man. John had his weaknesses, just like Sherlock did, his own brand of shame that he needed to deal with, but at the core of it all, they were meant for one another. It was unavoidable. Ones weakness would be a source of strength for the other, and _together_ they would be better men.

“The only time in my life I’ve ever experienced both happiness and contentment is when I’m here with you. All the best times in my life are because of you. Maybe I did love Mary, but…well…I think I idealised a lot of who I thought she was and managed to ignore who she really was. I can’t explain it…I cared for her deeply, I wanted to have a life with her, but even when I had it, it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t enough for me. I wanted more and because of that, I fell for your sister’s bait like the fool I truly am, and I cheated on my wife. No, it wasn’t with my body, but I’m pretty sure that if your sister had wanted to bed an old soldier, she could have. I no longer have any kind of moral high-ground. I’m a killer and I’ve broken my vows and I’m probably not good for anyone. I don’t deserve you, not at all. I’ve been closed-off, judgmental, and selfish. I’ve hurt you, caused you to be hurt and then I hurt you some more. I don’t know how you can even stand to look at me sometimes but you do.” John’s self-recrimination was sharp and cutting. Sherlock said nothing about John’s infidelity because John’s confession only made his own fears deepen _. How could he ever keep John for himself? He couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. It was up to John, John who had cheated on his legal and moral vows to his now deceased wife_. He said nothing. He didn’t know which words to use so he continued to listen.

John looked into his eyes again, “All those years we lived together and I never once touched you the way I was tempted to. I was strong in all the wrong ways. I put all those sorts of feelings aside because I want to be your friend before anything else. I want to be your very best friend until the end of days. That’s the least of what I want.” Now he looked back at his toes again, “Sherlock, I am not a good man. I have done terrible things and have been the reason that terrible things have happened. Despite all of that though…despite everything against me, I would really very much like to spend the rest of my life with you, any way I can, with as much or as little of yourself as you care to give.”

Sherlock was floored. _This speech was impassioned, clear, and completely not what he expected. John never addressed feelings directly. Why they’d faced certain death together more than once, and the soldier had never been pressed to confess like this._  Still, this was everything he’d ever dreamed of, and with a shaky nod of his head, “I do. I want…this.” Awkward again. _What did he want from John? He’d spent their entire relationship telling himself to expect nothing, and now that John was finally offering him anything, his mind was blank_.

“You can move in whenever you want.” _Lame!_ Sherlock felt himself cringe inside at the lukewarm response to John’s poetic request. Sherlock’s fingers knotted together, and he managed to stiffly eject some words, “I would…be agreeable…to living.” _Could he sound more ridiculous? Even Mycroft would have something suitable to say, even if he didn’t mean it! Eurus probably knew dozens of different inflexions for a thousand words that would impart more meaning and depth than the utterances he was managing!_ “It will be good _.” Clearly having a spectacularly high IQ meant nothing when you were trying to be romantic!_

It seemed to work on John anyway. He was grinning up at Sherlock, his dark blue eyes wrinkled in crows feet at the corners. John winked up at him and just said, “Well, there we are then.” That was all he seemed to need to hear.


	2. Evolution, Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have finally come to the beginning of an understanding of who they are to each other. It's been a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting will happen spontaneously. #IDoWhatIWant

The first night confused Sherlock because he was alone at 221 B Baker Street. John wasn’t prepared to move right away, he needed a day or two. John _had_ told him he could stay but Sherlock felt as if he would be imposing even more than he already had. He had a home that was entirely liveable once more, he didn’t need to cling needily to John’s. A single night away wasn’t the end of the world. He’d aired the flat out to ensure that everything was at maximum freshness for the baby. He inspected the kitchen and after making a large list on his mobile, he went out and did the shopping himself instead of making one of Mycroft’s underlings do it for him. He needed to make sure everything was exactly right. Now Sherlock lay in his lonely bed, the flat silent and cold, and wondered what John and Rosie were doing. He found out at midnight when John called, “Where is the extra pre-mixed formula?” Rosie still woke hungry at night, she very seldom slept through but her sleep patterns were much like Sherlock’s so that was alright when he was there.

“In the cupboard next to the sterilised bottles.” John had been keeping everything on the counter but after he’d begun to stay over, Sherlock had packed the cupboards up in what he thought was a logical manner during one of Rosie’s naps. John hung up but called back two minutes later, “The extra nipples are in the tabletop autoclave I left along with her favourite dummies.” Sherlock had been glad to donate some of his lab equipment. _Who knew what contaminants a baby could be exposed to?_ He did not know that answer to that concern but he was collecting the data since it was available. John disconnected without saying a word but Sherlock lay there grinning up into the darkness.

Five minutes later John called back, and without waiting for the question, “I put them back in the airing closet.” John’s kitchen counter at the flat could only hold so much. Though it was against his nature, Sherlock had utilised the available space in John’s kitchen, and elsewhere, as it was meant to be used since he had the time during the day. John disconnected, going off to find more shoulder cloths to burp Rosie onto before he tucked her back into bed. He needed to be back at the clinic by nine. Sherlock got up, dressed, went out, and flagged down a cab. By the time John was wearily calling to ask where the spare nappies were, Sherlock was already at his flat, “I’ve got her.” John was so tired looking, “Go, sleep.”

“You’re amazing.” John yawned hugely, reached out, squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder by way of thanks, and turned toward his bedroom, “Don’t let me sleep past seven.”

Sherlock ignored him and began to check over the small bundle in his arms. Normally John was very good at this sort of thing, having taught Sherlock everything he currently knew about babies, but he did get a bit fuddled if he’d been running on empty for more than two days, and he had. Between renovations, the clinic, and Rosie, John simply had not been resting enough. “Good morning Rosie.” Sherlock picked up a board book he’d gotten for her, “A is for accelerator,” he read from [The ABC’s of Particle Physics](http://www.symmetrymagazine.org/particle-physics-abcs/), “Which makes things move fast.” Rosie was over his shoulder, her face turned to the side so that he felt the gust of air leaving her body as she belched, “Good girl, I’m sure you feel relieved.” A warm patch became evident on his chest, “Ah. I was mistaken, _now_ you are relieved.” Sherlock lay her on the changing pad, cleaned her up, and when she was warm and dry, he weighed the soiled nappy and made notations on a chart he was putting together, “You are imbibing a suitable amount of liquids, and expelling the correct percentage of fluids. Excellent. Your next bowel movement shouldn’t be for another hour at least, so let’s see what we can do to occupy ourselves until then.”

Sherlock gave Rosie her toy elephant and she immediately began to chew on one leg. “You’re a bit young to be experiencing tooth cutting,” he muttered, but still managed to let her gnaw on his finger so he could feel around, “I suppose it’s just soothing.” He pulled out John’s laptop and began researching teething. He spent the next hour reading articles out to Rosie, allowing her to flop all over his chest as he reclined on the sofa, John’s laptop on the coffee table, “Infant dentition articles are very lacking. I need to do some papers of my own.”

Sherlock made notes. There were several areas that needed improvement when it came to parenting tips. He flagged several articles for later. A distinctive odour and a plaintive wail alerted him to Rosie’s needs, “Right on time.” Sherlock made note of that too and got up to take care of the little girl. When she was clean, dry, and floppier than ever, he let her sprawl over his chest again, face down and drooling as he continued to read articles out, “This book is dreadful, it should be retitled _The Thousand and One Ways You’ve Accidentally Traumatised Your Child_.” Scowling, he made more notes and began bookmarking items. “Why are there so many variations of the same products? These reviews are highly implausible and give no credible data as to efficacy! _Works great_ is not a helpful descriptor.”

Sherlock studied all night, ignoring the fact that it probably would have been easier if he put Rosie down. She looked so saggy and comfortable though, he didn’t have the heart, and besides, hearing her snuffling soft breaths near his ear was strangely relaxing and he was instantly on hand for anything she might need. _He was just being practical. He wasn’t addicted to cuddling a baby. That would be ridiculous._ At seven in the morning, he tapped on John’s bedroom door, “I’m up.” He heard the doctor say groggily, “I’ll get the baby.”

“She’s asleep again John, I fed her about an hour ago.” She’d woken up hungry, wet, but easily pacified. She was slumbering on his shoulder again so he knew she was fine but he planned to lay her in her pillow nest while he got John ready to face his day, “I’ll make coffee.” John looked like he wanted to protest but instead took his delightfully tousled self right on into the shower to clean up.

Sherlock made coffee as promised but also made hot cereal with dried fruit chopped in. He knew John was worried about his health, and while the doctor loved to tuck into a full English, Sherlock had prudently been nudging the soldier into having plainer heartier breakfasts during the work week and making the large complicated breakfast a treat for lazy Sundays. John hadn’t complained, in fact, he never complained at all if someone else did the cooking. John loved a hot meal and he didn’t care where he got it from. He was as happy with piping hot takeaway as he was with a re-heated plate of two-day-old leftovers. Sherlock enjoyed how John tucked into his breakfast, noisily crunching toast to entertain Rosie who had woken up again and slurping his coffee in a ludicrous manner to make his wee daughter laugh. Sherlock made notes of today’s attempt at nutritious cooking and was satisfied when John seemed to have no issue with the consistency or the additional dried fruits Sherlock had cooked into it. “I haven’t even packed. How am I getting all of this stuff home?”

It made Sherlock’s heart warm so much to hear John refer to 221 B Baker Street as _home_ so effortlessly, “Mycroft can send the packing crew a second time John. If you want, I can direct the move today while you’re at work.” It wouldn’t take long but it would be awkward fitting an entire house worth of items into 221 B Baker Street. Mary’s presence had already been reduced to almost nothing. Her clothes had been donated away and apart from her fake ID and a smattering of photos on John’s mobile that he kept for his daughter’s sake, it was as if Mary Morstan had never existed. She’d left behind no trace of herself, the USB stick that once had been her guarantee to life long since burned into nothingness, and anyone who might have cared for her before John had been a part of her life was also dead and gone.

She might have been relegated to ghost status if not for Rosie who had her mother’s cheeks, and bright yellow curls. Sherlock thought they were quite fetching when matched with John’s nose, and when he did some statistical comparisons, found that Rosie was the most agreeable baby anywhere. He tried to ensure that his data wasn’t biased, but not too much, because he loved the sweet small person in his arms and never wanted to let her go. _She smelled like fresh baked cookies and magic_.

John went to work so Sherlock did what he promised and called Mycroft. His brother tersely promised to have John’s things delivered so while he waited for them to arrive Sherlock took Rosie for a stroll in a nearby park. There were several parents there, some men, some women, and all happy to say hello and asked after his baby. Sherlock found their questioning to be not irritating, and the praise they heaped upon Rosie was very acceptable. She was indeed healthy, happy, and beautiful. Since he was surrounded by practical experience, Sherlock began asking questions. Soon he was making notes on his mobile, and because of that, instantly got the message that the movers were ready. “Thank you for your assistance.” Sherlock bade the other parents farewell and quickly made his way back toJohn’s old flat.

It took a few messages back and forth with John, but after an hour or so, the house had been packed up as much as possible. John had decided to keep it furnished on behalf of whoever might stay in it next since Sherlock had suggested that John begin considering offering the house to student renters as a source of income that required no more effort than leaving everything right where it already was. John could still sell in the future if he really wanted to, but now, any income could be used to support his daughter or be put away as savings against the future. John agreed and so Sherlock made sure all of the doctor’s personal possessions and all of Rosie’s things were safely relocated back to 221 B Baker Street.

While the workers hauled boxes, Sherlock sat with Rosie in front of his laptop and examined _The Science of Deduction_. In all honesty, it hadn’t been updated in a very long time and some of the information was no longer current. Sherlock decided it needed work, but before he got onto that, he needed to write up some of the notes he’d taken today. Eventually, he reluctantly discovered that typing with a baby wasn’t easy at all. Digging through Rosie’s things he came across an egg-pram still in its original packaging. It had been opened but the only thing that had been touched was the user instructions which had been put back into the box but only after they’d been twisted into an angry log of frustration.

Laying the sleeping baby down on the sofa with great care, Sherlock made sure she was incapable of flopping off, and then set himself the task of getting the pram ready for use. He unfurled the manual, reading the steps carefully, and even going over the warranty conditions with a jaundiced and cautious eye. This model had various options for angles and positions, cleverly designed to be used in any number of baby related situations from brisk walks in weather good or ill all the way to having snuggly naps indoors. He experimented with the levers, straps, and tabs, finding all the various ways the unit could be adjusted before he was satisfied that he understood it completely. Sherlock found the baby blankets he’d had laundered before the move and made a soft nest. Picking Rosie up he transferred her to the pram and gazed down at her. _It was perfect! He could move her anywhere in the flat he was but both his hands were free. Excellent_.

Rosie really only did three things; eat, sleep, and mess her diapers. Currently, she was fed, and clean, so she continued to do her baby job and slept. Sherlock found his notes were becoming cumbersome so he decided to do an audio recording instead. After fooling with the settings, he decided simply making a video recording of himself would be just as fine, so that’s what he did.

By the time John came home Sherlock had already recorded three videos. The first one was a dry list of points to remember as given to him by the parents at the park. It was awkward because the video recorder on his laptop was at a strange angle and it was hard to hold his mobile phone at the correct angle for long periods of time. Mrs Hudson’s presence had been summoned, though, the volume and frequency of pleased cooing she emitted nearly made Sherlock banish her from their rooms until a later date. The second video was on how to bath a small baby in a kitchen sink. Mrs Hudson used her mobile but the quality wasn’t as sharp as Sherlock had wanted. The third video was about how to change nappies and how to deal with the unpleasant remainder.

Mrs Hudson had been surprisingly helpful, holding his camera steady, and barely giggling at all as he attempted to look serious. Rosie really enjoyed bathing, and became quite physical, flailing her chubby little arms frantically as if she wanted out, but wailing loudly in protest if the water stopped flowing over her. After briefly editing all of them, Sherlock posted them on _The Science of Deduction_ under new topic area regarding the maintenance of living samples. The location of the posting was only temporary because Sherlock had no real desire to experiment on Rosie, he just wanted to utilise his database to store all the metrics he was capturing regarding her development. He made a mental note to make the appropriate alterations to his site at a later date.

John found Sherlock on the sofa sometime later, reviewing the data he’d gathered that day. Rosie was passed out cold, her belly taut and round from her latest meal, and sleeping soundly in her pram, her wee body splayed out on the flat surface beneath a fluffy yellow blanket, “Hi.” John’s eyes were smiling. Sherlock felt his heart rate suddenly accelerate. John often smiled but it didn’t always reach his eyes. It did now, and it was aimed directly at Sherlock, “How was it?”

“Fine. All of your things are in your room. I haven’t taken anything out, there wasn’t space. I have Rosie’s immediate necessities in the kitchen, but your room is quite literally packed.” John went upstairs. Frugal possessions or not, John could barely open his door. “I took the liberty of relocating some of your clothes and personal items to a more reachable location.” Sherlock rolled a suitcase forward. It was large, and filled with a week’s worth of clean clothes, John’s gun, and his box of bullets.

“Where are we supposed to sleep?” John sounded worried, “I guess I can get a hotel room for tonight, or go back to…”

“Use my room,” offered Sherlock instantly, “The bedding is clean, Rosie can sleep in her pram until we get her cot set up, and I can sleep on the sofa for a night or two. It won’t be a problem.”

John looked reluctant but Sherlock refused to hear him, “Well, I can get us dinner at least. Let me wash up.”

Sherlock ordered in while John took a hot bath to ease his still aching shoulder and paid for the meal too. John protested when he got out and ended up taking Sherlock’s wallet from him, stuffing in a handful of bills to pay him back, “I don’t need your money, John.”

“Yes, you do. You haven’t been working and I know the state of your accounts right now. You can’t afford to be feeding me _and_ my child.” Sherlock didn’t say anything. All the ready cash he’d had upon his return had been liquidated during his drug binge. He’d spent his remaining folding bills on restocking the flat and was down to a healthy pile of loose change. He might currently lack fiscal resources but he wanted to help John. He admitted that he liked Rosie a surprising amount. People complained about how difficult it was to take care of an infant but she’d been no trouble whatsoever so far. _Maybe when she was older?_ Well, he was in no position to comment about how to parent but there were several necessary things that everyone ought to be able to do, should the need arise, hence his videos.

Dinner was pleasant, and the evening seemed to fly by as they played with the baby and visited with Mrs Hudson who was full of ideas for a nursery make-over, just as soon as they could make room to do such things. Eventually, it was decided that since John was sleeping in Sherlock’s room anyway, then the one empty wall in it could be pressed into service temporarily as a storage area for John’s things. While Mrs Hudson kept Rosie diverted, Sherlock and John hauled everything down until the small upstairs space was empty of all its new things. There was a brief discussion about perhaps repainting the walls before everyone decided to leave it as it was. Mrs Hudson smiled at the wardrobe and bed that were left, “We’ll just leave those as well.” No one argued.

John fell asleep on Sherlock’s bed sometime after midnight, Rosie tucked beside him. Sherlock carefully removed her before covering John with a duvet. Carrying her upstairs, Sherlock looked around. With some thought, Sherlock set up Rosie’s nursery bed while she lay snug in a kind of odd baby containment unit that appeared to be some kind of bouncy chair but looked like a tremendous bee. Rosie was tucked into its thorax, her tiny body safely secured with a padded five-point harness. She didn’t really move much yet but Sherlock had taken the time to ensure that the device was sitting on top of a non-slip surface and then surrounded by pillows, reasoning that if she for some reason developed early escape abilities, not impossible considering both her parents were physically superior _and_ lethal, then she would benefit from gently tumbling onto a padded surface instead of the wooden floor. He took a picture of her to get John’s opinion later. After all, _he_ wasn’t a parent, he was just a placeholder for John whilst the doctor was resting or off battling the common cold and whatever else ailed the citizens of London.

It took much longer than he expected. By the time he’d assembled the bed unit, Sherlock needed to stop and feed Rosie, then burp her, and get on with the rest of her post-dining rituals. He was also sweaty and had managed to stab his own hand with the less-than-useful custom tool provided with the bed kit. He ignored his own discomfort and made sure he did everything in almost ritualistic order, referring to the assembly instructions obsessively. _The baby’s future safety was in his hands. He didn’t dare miss a single thing._ Rosie seemed to appreciate a moderate pace and lots of repetition as he screwed and unscrewed things. As with every minute he spent with her, Sherlock mentally made notes of time spans and preferences, slowly mapping her likes and dislikes as he examined her every reaction and need. By the time she was ready to be entombed in the bee again, at least ninety minutes had gone by.

Sherlock finally made the tiny bed up and lay the now sleeping baby in it while he put together his custom-designed mobile. Mary had purchased some run-of-the-mill atrocity that had colourful figurines and cheerful smiles. _Awful_. He replaced it with a not-to-scale replica of the solar system in honour of John’s endless jibes about Sherlock’s lack of important knowledge. He had two different versions. This one was black-and-white. He’d read that infants seemed to respond better to bold shapes and fewer colour choices at first but both included Pluto, which technically _wasn't_ a planet but John was a traditionalist about the solar system and refused to hear it impugned. Sherlock planned to gradually change each piece as she developed an appreciation for the entire visible spectrum, including important geometrical shapes. As an additional nod to the natural world, Sherlock also replaced the frilly protective bumper pad that surrounded the cot with one printed with nautilus shells and other mathematically agreeable shapes.

He tried to dress the baby nicely for her daddy. John would wake soon, so Sherlock quickly sorted through the large bin of tiny clothing. A huge portion of it was a distressing shade of pink that did not suit her complexion one bit but some were acceptable. Clearly many had been gifts from people who had never laid eyes on Rosie. Sherlock set many of the items aside to be donated away. _He didn’t care what favours he needed to wring from Mycroft, Rosie needed proper clothing_. It was just past dawn when his mobile rang. Sherlock had just finished closing the recycling bag that held the discarded articles he’d pared from Rosie’s still substantial collection, “Mummy? Is everything alright?”

“Is John living back at your flat?” Mummy sounded brusque.

Automatically Sherlock answered his mother. _He didn’t need to earn a dressing-down the way Mycroft had. At least Papa hadn’t joined in._ It was horrible earning Mummy’s disapproval but even her tongue lashings were better than hearing Papa try to sound as if he weren’t upset by whatever he or Mycroft had done, when in fact, he was. “Yes Mummy, he’s asleep right now. I am holding Rosie, John’s daughter.”

He heard the frost levels in her voice warm several degrees, “She’s a lovely little girl. It’s to this point that I have called, my boy.” Mummy paused, “It’s clear to us that you have settled for someone who isn’t going to be able to provide us with blood heirs. Nonetheless, as your partner, his baby is due her share of care and privilege that you yourself have enjoyed. Rosie is as close to a grandbaby as we’re likely to ever get, and if you are determined to assist the good doctor in raising her, then as your parents we too will see that our parts are played appropriately. By this I mean that you will be allocated the portion of the family trust you would have received upon the birth of your own first born, an act I don’t imagine will likely occur.” Sherlock didn’t think so either. Mycroft might arrange for a surrogate if he didn’t find a fertile and willing partner, but Sherlock had no desire to pass his genes along. _It wasn’t his job to procreate. He wasn’t the eldest_. “Go get our girl whatever she needs. Tell John what we’ve done so it’s not a surprise and tell him not to fuss. I’m not arguing about this. The money has already been sent to an account in both your names. Congratulations Sherlock, you are officially an adult at last. Be a good person, my boy. Trust your instincts. You’re already a far better parent than I was.”

She hung up and left Sherlock stunned and staring at the mobile which pinged with an email from Mummy. He quickly thumbed his way through the links until he was able to check his new bank account. It was swollen to ridiculous proportions. Sherlock nodded. He had never been particularly interested in money but that wasn’t the point. _This wasn’t for him. This was for Rosie. She was John’s baby, and Mummy and Papa clearly approved of John._ Even if they remained only best friends for the rest of their lives, Sherlock knew he would have a personal interest in no other. John was it. It made him feel odd to know that his mother saw him as a fit parent but didn’t think the same of herself. He then thought of how her efforts had turned out. _She’d produced Mycroft, Eurus, and Sherlock. Two of her three children were certifiable and all of them were capable of wreaking vast amounts of havoc without remorse_. Perhaps Mummy had a point. _Trust his instincts? His first instinct was to celebrate, but how? Rosie couldn’t be left unattended, and John would be awake soon, groggy and unwilling to go anywhere_.

The baby woke up so he put her back in her pram, jiggling it in the pattern she liked until she passed out again. He then wheeled her to the kitchen where he made her bottle for later, and then set himself the task of cleaning up. He was awful at housekeeping but reminded himself that he was a genius, he ought to be able to cogitate at higher levels _and_ do the dishes at the same time. He found that speaking to the soundly slumbering Rosie helped. “Dish soap consists of water, citric acid, some surfactants which cause the foam you are currently witnessing, _sodium tripolyphosphate_ and _sodium metasilicate_ , and so forth, and even some colourant which began as a solid, believe it or not, but now look. It’s a lovely smooth clear marigold. What’s particularly interesting about this formulation...” By the time Sherlock completed his introduction to dish cleaning solutions the washing up was completed, and he was now able to scrub down the kitchen table.

There was a momentary hitch in his plans when Rosie began to fuss but he quickly pressed a barely awake Mrs Hudson into service as a temporary baby holder. He’d caught her sneaking out to have her morning herbal soother. _He really needed to figure out some way of being able to carry Rosie hand’s free_. _The pram was convenient for when he could also stay on the same level but stairs immediately negated its efficacy_. Sherlock made a mental note to look into the matter. He mopped and dried the kitchen floor before he went back down to fetch Rosie back, and had her re-fed, re-bathed, re-dressed, and re-entombed in her bee before he heard John leaving the bedroom. John was smiling hugely, looking around appreciatively before bending over to press several happy and teasing kisses to Rosie’s head. She recognised her father immediately and suddenly recalled how much she missed him. When she burst into tears, John looked momentarily stymied before he just scooped her up and held her close. In seconds her wails died off and she snuggled happily into her father’s neck, content with the world once again. “What’s going on?”

“Just a spot of tidying, John.” He hadn’t put the clean dishes away yet but it took only a couple of minutes now that there was someone else to man the baby. Sherlock found his right arm was slightly stiff and sore from being bent in the same position so frequently. Giving Rosie her bottle combined with post-feeding cuddlings were having a cumulative impact. He made a mental note to look into baby carriers. He’d seen all sorts of people attach their children to their bodies with harnesses and …things. It wasn’t really his area, but if John wanted to live with Sherlock, then Rosie was automatically part of the deal. He wasn’t going to stop being a consulting detective just because he had a baby, and he’d need his hands when he was working a case. Other mothers had jobs and babies, there was no reason he couldn’t too.

It was more entertaining than he expected. Watching John in front of his daughter was always a diverting experience. The soldier couldn’t seem to help pulling faces and generally acting the fool. Rosie loved it, waving her arms and legs wildly during her daddy’s performance while Sherlock sat sedately on his side of the table. When Rosie began to fuss, Sherlock fetched another bottle. She was quite small and her tiny tum emptied quite quickly, but Sherlock was tracking her digestive rates and produced a warm ready bottle just as she began to sound miserable. John happily sat on the sofa, raptly watching his child nurse her bottle dry. Carefully he helped her after, and sat still as stone as she fell asleep on his shoulder, a tiny string of drool linking the rosebud of her mouth to John’s ear.

Sherlock found he was content to just sit and chat softly with John so Sherlock wheeled her egg-pram over and watched as John lay his daughter onto the flat surface inside, covering her with a little blanket sewn all over with very happy looking ducks. When John looked up, his eyes were shining. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile, and John’s eyes grew brighter still, “You’re amazing.” John’s voice was soft and gentle, “I would never have believed how good you could be with her.”

“I don’t understand, I did nothing.” John was the one who had fed her and helped her fall asleep. Sherlock had merely sat there.

“You cleaned up the kitchen and got this pushchair thingy figured out, and I don’t even know how you did that because I tried three different times and couldn’t do it, and I’m a doctor, and just…well, look at you! You’re just…amazing. I know you don’t know much about babies, but you just…thank you. It's nice to think about you being with her all night. Was it bad? Boring?” Now John looked worried, “I could find babysitters, you’re going to need time off today to rest.”

“Stop. John,” Sherlock took a deep breath and reached out for John’s hands. He was heartened when John’s small but strong fingers curled around his instantly, “Rosie isn’t a problem for me to look after or sort out. I enjoy my time with her.” He looked down, “In fact, I think Rosie is very good for me. No, she’s not boring John. She’s yours, _your_ daughter. She’s fascinating and beautiful, and interesting, and I don’t need time off until a case comes up, so if you want to arrange for someone in that event, then fine, but for now, I’m alright.”

John looked unconvinced but Sherlock wasn’t being deceptive. _He’d just spent hours alone with Rosie and not one minute of it had been awful or tedious. He’d learned all sorts of things, and had even interacted on a semi-social level when they’d gone to the park_. John seemed determined to find something to be worried about, “When I get home, I need to go to the shops for things for her, what do we need?”

Sherlock blurted out the news about Mummy’s endowment and how he planned to help John and Rosie out as if she were his own, and that his parents would help. Sherlock dared to stroke the back of John’s hand with tenderness and felt rewarded when the soldier curled his fingers around Sherlock’s once more. “So, we need nothing John, we have more than enough on hand, and later I can take Rosie to the shops to supplement everything else. I need to get a few things anyway, and her egg-pram is designed to safely transport her through the streets. Of course, if _you_ want to do the shopping, I won’t argue, but I am perfectly capable of doing it.” John’s eyes were softer than Sherlock had ever seen them, and the grip on his fingers grew firmer. “John?”

“You’re amazing,” John whispered before pulling Sherlock toward him. Their lips met and Sherlock’s mind shut off. He floated there in a blissful bubble where John’s mouth on his was the only things of importance. In his mind palace, he labelled this moment _First Lucid Kiss_ and tucked it away in the precious memory portion of his long-term storage. “You’re filing this away, aren’t you?”

“No.” Sherlock tried to deny it but John just sniggered, “Fine. Yes, I am.” John outright giggled, and Sherlock loved it, even if it made his cheeks burn with embarrassment, “Apologies.”

“Unnecessary. I’m pretty chuffed to be allocated space in there. You haven’t even bothered putting in Anderson’s first name.”

“Knowing _Anderson’s_ first name helps no one ever,” snapped Sherlock, “You aren’t just allocated space, you are part of the operating system.” John actually understood that reference and stared up at Sherlock, his expression a mixture of surprise, delight, humbleness, and disbelief. Sherlock explained further, entranced by the reaction he’d provoked, “I can’t function without you.”

John’s grin grew, “That’s probably the sappiest most romantic thing you’ve ever said, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Shut up, John.” Sherlock smiled down at John even though his words had a definite bite to them. John grinned back, completely unashamed to display all his many feelings openly. Sherlock drank it all in and was hungry for more. “I do mean it though. I’m not right without you. The world doesn’t work properly unless you’re there to help translate it for me in ways I can understand. Without you, John Watson, I have no guiding light, no path to follow, no purpose at all. I become what many have always thought I was, an unfeeling machine. You make me feel. You make me…human.”

“I was wrong.” John’s eyes were soft again, “ _That’s_ the sappiest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Shut up John.”

“Not before I’ve told you how much I love you.” That stopped Sherlock completely. Only when his eyes fluttered open and he found himself gazing directly into John’s face, which was now only an inch or two from his, did he realise that he had become dizzy enough to require a sit-down. “You swooned.” John sounded unbearably smug.

 _Instant denial was mandatory!_ “I did no such thing.”

“You got wobbly in the knees and slithered to the floor. Scarlet O’Hara couldn’t have done better.” The level of smugness had not decreased.

“Who?” Sherlock floundered through his mind-palace but came up with no references.

“You’re insane and I love you.” The lights went out again. “Sherlock, are you planning on swooning every time I say that, because I’d rather like to say it a lot, and I need to be prepared to catch you.”

“I am _not_ swooning.” Sherlock sat up. Blood seemed to rush upward, making his temples pound and causing him to be hyper-aware of the pulse-point on this neck, “I must be ill.”

 _“Lovesick.”_ John nodded wisely, “You can trust me, I’m a doctor.”

“You are being ridiculous.”

“And you are perfect.” Sherlock didn’t want to argue anymore, “I do love you, though.”

Sherlock managed to stay conscious this time, “You do?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks and throat grow hot, and it made him blush harder knowing he was blushing at all. _He’d been a high-functioning sociopath for most of his life. Having emotions was going to be a real adjustment. He needed to build up his tolerance and endurance._ John grinned and Sherlock nearly told him to shut his face. Instead, his mouth opened and he said, “I esteem you greatly.”

John burst out laughing, and fell over, laying on the floor giggling helplessly before gasping out the words, “You _did_ watch that movie! I knew you would.”

“I DID NO SUCH THING,” roared Sherlock, now fully embarrassed because he had indeed once spent an entire afternoon raptly watching _Sense and Sensibility_. Rosie awoke abruptly and began to cry, her voice piercing with fear and upset. Sherlock’s attention snapped toward her and he was mortified that he’d forgotten her so intensely that he’d shouted right beside her, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” He had her scooped up in an instant, rocking her gently as he held her close to his heart, “Shh little one, shh. I’m loud and rude and I’m so sorry. Sleep little one, sleep. Your daddy is right over there so nothing bad can possibly happen.” Rosie’s eyes were fixed on his but the rocking quickly soothed her, as did the reassuring tones of Sherlock’s voice. After a few careful minutes of walking her back and forth, Rosie fell deeply asleep once more. Sherlock tucked her back into her pram and stood there watching her. “I’m sorry John.”

His shoulders sagged, defeated with his own incompetence. _Who was he kidding? He wasn’t a nurturer. John was lucky that Rosie was still surviving_. _Now she was probably traumatised for life, just like the books said_. Sherlock sarcastically thanked himself in advance for all the nightmare-ridden nights he could expect to sit through thanks to his own outburst. _Poor Rosie_.

“Stop apologising, Sherlock, I shouldn’t have teased at all.” Sherlock found his hand being held gently, “It means a lot to me, what you said, and even how you said it. You’re amazing with Rosie.”

Sherlock smiled but unhappily. He felt like he’d mucked up his first opportunity to tell John how he felt properly, and he’d never get a first chance ever again. He felt an intense amount of upset because of that fact but John didn’t need to know that. “Thank you, John,” he said instead. His words sounded stiff and wooden.

John often missed a great many details but he didn’t miss that, “Sherlock, what you said means _everything_ to me. I don’t know if it's physically possible to be happier than I am right now. I feel like things are alright for once, completely good. _You_ make me feel that way.” Since it was still very early, John took him to bed the moment they had Rosie safely situated. Sherlock was nervous at first before he realised that John meant to do nothing more threatening that making Sherlock change back into his pyjamas before they crawled under the duvet together for a few minutes before John left. This was good. He could manage this. Settling in, Sherlock composed himself to sleep with the unexpected comfort of John pressed to his side. It came easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Science because today is March For Science and I love science deeply - the world marched! 
> 
> *post-script*  
> All hail MyFirstIsTheFourth's OCD which zeroed in on timeline errors as well as offences against the English Language and Crimes Against Grammar. Thanks.


	3. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have moved forward together at long last and are finding their way through the beginnings of their newly defined relationship.

It became their routine, one that extended in duration on John’s day’s off. Sherlock approved of the change wholeheartedly. During the mornings where Rosie fell asleep before John left, the good doctor took the opportunity to cuddle Sherlock to sleep. It was rather lovely laying in bed with John in his arms. Sherlock often took advantage of his much longer body to spoon up behind the small soldier, soaking in John’s heat, and drowning in John’s scent. It was bliss, calming, tranquil, undemanding and soul-healing.

Things had been so chaotic for so long that this little bit of peace was the balm his ragged soul needed. Today was another free day for John so Sherlock indulged himself for a while, barely moving at all until John was roused by Rosie’s demanding late-morning cries. He lay in bed and drowsed as he listened to John be caring and loving, soothing his child, and puttering gently about the room. He dragged himself out from beneath the gravity increasing duvet, and once freed, took himself to the kitchen to make coffee for John. The soldier required at least one hot meal a day or he became unbelievably testy, no matter how he tried to deny it. Sherlock had done extensive studies over the years, concluding that one hot meal per twenty-four-hour period was a mandatory part of keeping your doctor soldier happy.

Today it was waffles, not because Sherlock was trying to make anything special, but because he had absentmindedly purchased buttermilk when he’d gone to the shops to get butter and milk. The recipe he found online used quite a lot of buttermilk, which was why he chose it, and it gave him a chance to borrow Mrs Hudson’s expensive new waffle iron, the flippy tabletop kind, the one he’d never had an excuse to borrow…until today. It wasn’t until he was stirring in the dry ingredients that he realised that the reason for so much buttermilk was the vast quantity of batter that was being made.

An hour later saw him _still_ producing waffles. Rosie was having a marvellous time using both hands to mash butter into every pocket of her waffle. She might have even tried to eat a nibble or two while John seemed to be trying to defy natural law by stuffing a far larger amount of food into his stomach than was probably healthy. “Amazing.” John soaked some bites in syrup, standing beside Sherlock to feed him while the detective continued to cook. By the time the mountain of waffles was completed, all of them were buzzing with an excess of energy and decided to go for a leisurely stroll.

John handed over a large amount of Sherlock’s breakfast to Mrs Hudson who promised to call Mrs Turner and her married ones over for a surprise brunch thanks to the largess. Sherlock had Rosie fed and tucked into her pram, ready to go. He had dressed her in the strange outdoor clothing that was left after his culling. It made her look like a cartoon version of _Ursus arcto,_ and he’d decided that it was in line with her natural defensive mechanisms, in that her level of adorableness prompted adults to care for her and to desire to protect her. He was just following nature’s logic by assisting, so he made sure he tucked an extra-fluffy blanket around. It enhanced her cuteness factor, and therefore, provided Rosie with a much larger safety quotient than without. Satisfied, he pushed the pram as John led them to the park.

Now that John was there to help, Sherlock wasn’t as distracted with the baby as he had been previously. He eyed all the other adults with less than veiled suspicion. _Child abductions happened every single day. John was recklessly chatting with another parent and not keeping his eyes on Rosie! Why anyone could scoop her up and make off with her! A woman was bending over the pram right now! Her arm was extending!_ Quick as a flash Sherlock interposed his body between the strange woman and Rosie. Smoothly he transferred the tiny girl from her bindings to his arms. Once safely in hand, he turned and plastered a fake smile on his face, “Oh hello!”

“Your daughter is just gorgeous.” Cooed the woman. He was more suspicious than ever.

“She’s not mine.”  He bit out. The smile fell off the woman’s face when he answered her coldly and she quickly eyed Rosie with some concern.

“Sherlock, stop scaring people.” John was there, and his presence seemed to remove the discomfort that was beginning to form on the woman’s face. John continued, “Don’t mind him, he’s a mite over-protective. His side of the family is funny that way. When they promise to keep an eye out, they are _not_ joking.”

The woman tittered and now looked up at Sherlock who was glaring at John for comparing him to Mycroft. In a teasing voice she said, “Well, you can’t be too careful, can you?”

John nodded, “This is my little girl, Rosie. Sherlock and I live just over there, and thought today would be a good day to have a family walk.” John was relentlessly friendly.

Sherlock found that his cheeks had heated. _He was absolutely not blushing just from John casually confirming that they lived together. After all the years of denying that they were a couple, John was just going with it right there in public like it was no big deal!_ “It’s fantastic that your friend is helping you raise your daughter. Enjoy the sunshine!”

Sherlock stared at the woman who smiled pleasantly at both of them before continuing her stroll. Sherlock blinked. _Everyone had always assumed that he and John were together when they weren’t, and now that they were, no one saw it?_ He looked back down at John who had resumed his friendly conversation with the other loosely grouped adults who chatted amiably as they kept a watch over playing children of all ages. He supposed they really did appear as nothing more than two platonic friends simply out for a bit of air. Sherlock felt a bit put out and he wasn’t certain if he was allowed to display some sort of proprietary behaviour outside of the flat. They hadn’t discussed mutually acceptable displays of affection when in public.

Sherlock noted that roughly sixty percent of the people that John had managed to rope into a conversation were female, and only one of them bore a wedding ring. There were more and more single parents these days, all doing it on their own for an unending amount of reasons and circumstances. Three of them looked very interested in the small and currently amusing doctor. A flicker of unhappy jealousy began to burn. John preferred women, that was a known fact. Present were a selection of intelligent capable females, none of whom seemed put off by the fact that John had a child, nor were any of them even glancing Sherlock’s way.

Sherlock realised that he was very insecure but he couldn’t process unfamiliar emotions clearly while he was feeling so flustered. He needed time in his mind palace but this was most certainly not the optimum time or location to enter it. Sherlock jiggled Rosie a tiny bit to sooth her. He swallowed hard and decided not to watch the women flirt openly with John. He focused on Rosie instead. _She loved him. Well, he was pretty sure that Rosie loved him. She didn’t mind him, at least, and maybe that would have to be enough. He had no right to expect love or devotion from anyone. Perhaps he should just step back a bit and give John room to dazzle the ladies_.

Swallowing hard again, Sherlock did exactly that, stepping back a short pace away from John. He didn’t expect John’s arm to reflexively shoot out and wrap around his waist and hips before the doctor pulled Sherlock tight to his side. All of Sherlock’s insecure feelings evaporated as John kept his arm possessively in place, and began to flatter Sherlock by telling anyone who would listen of how amazing John thought he was, and how good he was with _their_ little girl. “Good to meet you all. We’ll be seeing more of you now that I’m all settled back into our flat. We’re off!”

Sherlock wondered if the hot spots on his cheeks would ever cool. He felt ridiculously happy at that moment and knew his mouth was currently shaped into a lopsided grin. He’d never expected that being a couple in public could make him feel so nice inside, and clearly, it was doing something for his soldier. John’s strut was a tiny bit more cocky than normal and Sherlock felt about as in control of himself as he had when he was at the height of teenage hormonal impulsiveness. “John?”

“Mmm?” The doctor’s thumb was making gentle sweeps near his T12 and his L1 vertebrae. The pressure wasn’t even enough to press through Sherlock’s sturdy coat but he felt it on his skin anyway.

“This thing that you’re doing?” He paused because the pressure of John’s thumb increased, “It’s really good.”

“Good.” John kept doing it as Sherlock pushed Rosie’s pram back toward 221 B Baker Street, his silly grin plastered firmly on his face. “Let’s get crunchy-melties.”

Sherlock laughed and nodded. More than one abandoned dinner had been binned after returning from a case. Living right next to a sandwich shop that made the best hot sandwiches in Central London had allowed the genius to develop a late-night habit of re-heating them so that they were “crunchy and melty” all over again. Mr Chattergee welcomed them like they were his long-lost sons, and soon enough they were back in their flat and eating their piping hot meals right out of the wrapper. It was a slice of domestic bliss that Sherlock had never once even hazily imagined that he would get to enjoy.

They were just settling in when Sherlock’s mobile chirped. He read the text, “John, multiple murder. Lestrade’s sent photos. We need to move fast; this person has an agenda. They’ll kill again and soon unless we can stop them!”

“We can’t both go…Rosie!” John looked down at his daughter. She was gnawing on her toy elephant’s leg with determination. “We can’t bring a baby to a crime scene!”

“Why not? She’s got to learn about crime sooner or later! It’s like languages, start her young! Education is important, John.”

“Sherlock, you are not bringing my daughter to a crime scene!”

“But John! _Murder!”_ Sherlock knew John was right but he didn’t want to leave Rosie behind, and things were always better when John was around, “It’s not like we’ll even be able to chase the actual murderer ourselves. We have to stay on scene and direct the people in the field. We won’t be in any sort of danger. I can even rig up a carrier for her, I’ve done some research.” _Giving up the chase for Rosie’s sake wasn’t even a difficult decision. She was just too delicate to risk during hand-to-hand combat. If they were careful of the impact, then running bit was alright, but John would kill him before any criminal had the chance if Sherlock allowed his only child to risk being physically harmed by anyone at all._

Sherlock raced over to the bedroom and got three vests from the bedroom. With a large pair of scissors, he cut them cleanly from armhole to armhole across the chest, leaving him with three small rings of fabric, “Don’t worry, those were mine.” Sherlock knew John would assume Sherlock had destroyed the doctor’s clothing, but he hadn’t. Standing up, Sherlock got himself into his home-made baby-carrier and managed to manoeuvre the wriggly little girl into the taut flexible fabric, “See? If we dress her warmly I can still button my coat around her and she’s warm, happy, and right on hand for us to look after. Safe as houses. I’ll pack her diaper bag.”

John still looked like he was marshalling his protests so Sherlock moved fast. He went upstairs with Rosie, changed her into fresh diapers, and then dressed her in graduated layers of clothing until she was a chubby little cocoon of material. After getting her back into her new carrier, and adjusted comfortably against his flat chest, Sherlock practised bending and lifting while she was there, and found he was able to do just about anything while carrying her thusly. Satisfied, he pulled out John’s old army haversack and tucked in everything they might possibly need for several hours of away time. He then went to the kitchen and packed two bottles of formula into a soft insulated bag, and tucked in with the rest. Clipping Rosie’s elephant to the handle was the final preparation necessary before he found himself face-to-face with John.

John looked like he wanted to protest. His features did a complicated kind of dance that telegraphed his internal arguments clearly to the consulting detective before they settled in an expression of fondness combined with a kind of guilty pride, “She looks very happy.” Rosie was looking around avidly, her little eyes filled with merriment and excitement. Sherlock grandiosely swept his Belstaff on, and, as promised, buttoned it up to cover Rosie up to the back of her head, “You’ve put her in enough things to keep her warm enough to survive a full winter’s night.

“Case, John, let’s go.” Sherlock smiled as John gave in and followed him to the street. It was a tiny bit ungainly to have a new weight on his chest. He’d feel the strain in his abdomen and lower back tomorrow, but that was unimportant. Rosie still had that new-baby smell about her, and Sherlock loved the fact that all he needed to do was lean down and press his face to her soft little curls whenever he felt like it to enjoy the scent. Pressing a kiss while he was there just seemed to be efficient and practical so he did that too. He pulled a Mrs Hudson created the knobby woolly hat from his pocket, and carefully manoeuvred it over Rosie’s head so that it was secure but did not obstruct her desire to look around. John was smiling over at him, “What?”

“Nothing…just…” John took his hand and squeezed it tight for a moment, his eyes brighter than normal, “I’m just enjoying the view.”

Sherlock _wasn’t_ going to blush anymore but apparently, his transport was going through a rebellious phase because he could feel his cheeks heating once again, “Don’t be silly, John.”

“You’re both beautiful and I am the luckiest man in the world,” John said simply. Sherlock felt his heart swell up almost painfully huge. The rest of the ride seemed to fly by in only a moment. Sherlock was happy, and it wasn’t a sensation he was overly familiar with. It startled him when John said, “We’re here.”

Sherlock led the way out and deliberately ignored the outraged gasps he heard from the crew assembled. “For crying out loud, you can’t bring a _baby_ here! What is wrong with you, Holmes? Have you no decency?” The DI was new. Sherlock couldn’t recall her name even though he remembered her as being not too annoying.

John stepped forward. “She’s _my_ baby and he’s helping me! If you don’t need us here then we can go right now. Come on, Sherlock, apparently _the three of us_ aren’t required.”

“Very well, John.” Sherlock wasn’t going to argue even though it _was_ a murder and he was already fairly certain that the butler had done it. _No murder scene was going to be more interesting or important than John and Rosie, and if they weren’t welcome here, well Sherlock was literally tied to the baby who was being rejected. He’d have to go with John_.

“No! Wait.” Clearly, the woman was frustrated, “I’ve got to be as crazy as you are.” She glared at Sherlock.

“Believe me, Detective Inspector, I am _not_ the crazy one in my family. Don’t get me started.” Sherlock tuned her out from then on, not interested in making small-talk with people. It only made them think he’d remember their name, or want to be friends or other implausible things. Socializing was John’s area, so Sherlock left his…John…to do his job. He had deductions to make.

“See right there, baby? That’s called _blood spatter_. If you understand enough about trajectory and viscosity and so forth, you can practically read what happened, what weapon was used, and even where everyone was positioned. See this bit over here? Arterial spray, very difficult to manufacture as artifice so what does that tell you, my dear?” Sherlock kissed her little head again as she slobbered on his bespoke shirt, “That’s right, baby, this poor person was killed very quickly, throat sliced from behind. The perpetrator was approximately 1.9 meters in height, presumably male though there are a few women of that height.”

John was speaking to the female DI and seemed to be in the middle of a rather heated discussion. Since he wasn’t free to be the excellent sounding board that he was, Sherlock made do with the next available Watson. “What else do you see, Rosie?” The baby gurgled. “That’s right, more than one person was killed here. Very clever, baby, not many infants could discern that. I’m very proud of you and will support any desire you might have to enter forensic sciences when you are of appropriate age. Your father probably won’t go for it until you’re at least in fifth form, but independent study goes a long way. Let’s continue, shall we?”

Everything unfolded pretty much as Sherlock expected it would. He examined the crime scene and determined a short-list of likely suspects which he passed along to the police present. A coordinated web of detectives was sent around the city to eliminate possibilities before their investigative net closed around one very panicked murderer. “See, John? Nothing traumatic happened.”

They went on more cases after that. Rosie didn’t seem to mind being hauled out of her cot at any hour of the day or night, and she laughed merrily whenever they needed to run anywhere, though they mostly kept it down to gentle jogs. John showed his tacit approval by purchasing Sherlock a professionally made koala carrier but ordered it in cheerful colours that came with attachments for toys. The combination of Sherlock’s huge coat combined with a child’s laughter chasing them down dark alleyways seriously unnerved more than one criminal mid-flight.

The worst thing in the world happened. Rosie met Anderson and she absolutely _loved_ him. Sherlock was devastated. Anderson was still sporting a rather tragic beard and it enchanted the little girl. Whenever he made an appearance her little arms went straight out to him as she would begin to struggle to get out of her carrier. Sherlock died a little inside the first time Anderson was allowed to hold her, feeling as if he’d lost something precious that he’d never get back, and John called him a drama queen. “She’s growing up so fast. She _already_ has terrible taste in men! John, what are we going to do when she’s sexually mature?”

Anderson handed her back immediately and John glared up at the detective. “She’s barely a year old, Sherlock. She just likes different textures. If it threatens you so much, grow a beard!”

“Never in a million years, Watson, and you don’t get to grow one either.”

“Not having a domestic, are we boys?” John rolled his eyes as Sally Donovan’s teasing voice rang out.

“I thought you transferred to Interpol.” Sherlock glared over at the tall woman in the hallway. _He actually didn’t dislike Donovan, and personally thought that Lestrade’s team was seriously weakened without her, but he too would work for Interpol given half a chance. If they let him remain an independent contractor. John needed to be part of the deal too._ _After all, it wasn’t like the Met could promote her unless someone like Lestrade died or retired._ He didn’t begrudge her choices, especially when he knew that the financial windfall she was receiving was being directed toward supporting her out-of-work sister and the brilliant young nephew that was currently enrolled at an excellent private school, all at Sally’s personal expense. She wouldn’t be able to do that on her previous wage, even if it meant she no longer got to live in London.

“I did. I’m back for the weekend to close up my old flat. I just came by to…” She cut her eyes toward Anderson, and for the first time ever, Sherlock felt compelled to tactfully give them privacy. Whatever happened between the two of them was clearly ongoing, and he didn’t want to hear whatever personal words they needed to speak to one another. He went back to investigating the scene and explaining his observations to both John and Rosie. It wasn’t until they were back at the flat that Sherlock realised that John had held his hand at the scene and that it hadn’t troubled Sherlock at all. Anyone could see that they were a couple, and the police gossiped more than anyone. The whole city would know that they were together. Sherlock blushed all over again.

Later that night, he finally felt collected enough to do what he’d been steeling himself to do for days now. His new relationship with John was a wondrous thing filled with sweetness and tender caring, and Sherlock was getting a bit sick of it. They slept together every single night. That’s it. They slept. John let Sherlock cuddle with him, but that was as far as it went. If they snogged, it was always someplace like the living-room, or in the kitchen. John kept his hands respectfully upon Sherlock’s arms, or his upper back, but never came close to initiating anything more intimate. It was lovely and amazing and he was so done with it. In bed that night, Sherlock scooted closer, gathered John into his arms, took a deep breath, and reached down to cup John’s arse.

It was fantastic.

“Sherlock?” John was rigid in his arms, his buttocks clenched tight. Sherlock wasn’t certain but he was fairly sure John wasn’t indicating any kind of receptive behaviours.

Sherlock jerked his hand away, placing it on the neutral ground that was John’s fabric-covered waist, his face flaming, “Sorry. I’m just going to sleep now.” He closed his eyes and compelled his body to become limp and relaxed. Inside he was nearly weeping with distress. _John didn’t want this. He didn’t want sex with Sherlock. This was all he would ever get with John_. Sherlock was a master of his transport so he kept his breaths even, deepening and slowing his exhalations until he was calm once more. He felt the tell-tale prickling of tears in his eyes and struggled harder than ever to remain pliant and sleepy-seeming.

“Well, that’s a bit of a tease,” John grumbled, tucking his head beneath Sherlock’s chin, and pressing their chests together. Sherlock felt John’s arm go around his waist and nearly gasped in shock when a small warm hand slipped beneath the band of his pyjama bottoms and cupped _his_ arse firmly, “You took me by surprise is all, Sherlock, and your hands are like ice. I didn’t think you cared much for this kind of intimacy?” 

John’s fingers were sweeping tiny circles on the curve of his sacrum before boldly following the line of Sherlock’s intergluteal cleft down to his gluteal sulcus. “John?” He gasped.

The feeling was far more intense than he might have expected. _Clearly, the entire region was biologically designed to allow manual stimulation to feel pleasing_. He tried to explain this to John but all he got out was a kind of deep lowing sound that made the soldier chuckle a bit. “What made you think I wouldn’t want this with you? I thought you wanted to have everything with me? I was waiting for you, you git! Haven’t you noticed how I have been letting you set the pace here?” John sounded the tiniest bit chiding and a little bit irritated.

Sherlock snapped his words out, “Why in the world did _that_ seem like a brilliant idea, John? I’ve never been in any sort of relationship before. Why would you assume I would know what to do or how to do it?” He was very upset now and pushed himself away from the small man, the band of his pyjama bottoms snapping back into place with an ignominious twanging sound. Instantly he missed the feel of John’s bare hand on his bum. He didn’t like feeling stupid, and right then he felt both idiotic as well as aroused, and it was making him angry. The degree of vulnerability made him defensive as well. He didn’t know what he wanted from John and he was becoming less inclined to find out. John’s fingers so intimate on his bottom had been breathtaking but being called a _git_ during that particular moment had stung. “Just…just go to sleep, John. I’m going to go work on some bacterial samples.”

Sherlock ignored anything John tried to say to him and stormed off, deliberately listening to music on his mobile, using the fancy sound-blasting headphones Mrs Hudson had gotten him for his last birthday. In short order, he could _smell_ John nearby and felt a fluttering touch tug at his pyjama. Sherlock ignored it, re-focusing his microscope to examine his samples with absolute focus. He felt the heat of John’s breath along his back and he ignored that too. The heat was moving downward but Sherlock was busy right then. He didn’t have time to notice how he knew that John was standing right behind him, his small hands on either side of Sherlock’s hips and that the soldier was breathing on him. John was huffing out small puffs of very warm air, following Sherlock’s spine, and then continuing along the path delineated by his fingertips earlier.

Sherlock had to close his eyes. John wasn’t being fair. He still wasn’t touching. He was just _breathing_ and it was infuriating. Sherlock felt the moistness of it, the lingering warmth of it. The tip of John’s nose brushed against Sherlock left buttock and he jumped. It would be so easy to kick his leg back and force John to stop. He knew the soldier would. Instead, Sherlock leant over to examine his sample once more. He felt John chuckle before the doctor began a quest to distract Sherlock from his studies.

John was the devil. Sherlock was still feeling touchy but John was incredibly diverting. No words were exchanged but now John was gently using his teeth to bite and explore Sherlock’s bottom. He stood motionless and did nothing to stop it. Sherlock was now entirely ignoring his samples in favour of clutching his microscope and panting. John tugged his bottoms down just enough and Sherlock shivered from head to toe as John blew more warm air down his cleft, shuffling forward to duck his head and do the same across his testicles. Sherlock found that his back had arched, he had slumped forward, widening his stance, and bracing his feet a bit further apart, granting John more intimate access. John took it.

Nearly clawing the headphones away, Sherlock now heard John drop to his knees and felt himself being turned around. His face was beet red as he did so, knowing that his penis was fully engorged and poking an incriminating tent in his pants. John eased the last of the fabric away and down. “You tell me to stop at any time, Sherlock.” John’s voice was serious. “I want to do this for you but only if it makes you feel good. That’s what I want, to make you feel good, as much as I can, as much as you’re able. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, not a bit. You don’t deserve to be unhappy, not ever again.”

It was unbearably sentimental and he had no defences. “Mouth, John!” Sherlock demanded, thrusting his hips forward, “Stop talking.” John’s laughter was golden and magical, and just like that, all the awkwardness was gone. _How was it possible to feel so many things at the same time?_ John began to taste and explore, licking and suckling all the tender flesh delicately. Sherlock was entirely helpless, unable to deny that the delicious feelings radiating from his phallus had completely derailed all trains of thought, incoming and outgoing alike.

After a million years, John finally took Sherlock into his mouth and began to apply a much more satisfying level of suction and pressure. Sherlock found it to be intense, moist, and far more pleasurable than he was prepared to deal with. It was the wet heat of it that did him in. He peaked, hard; his only warning a sharp gasp at the last second. To his utter mortification, Sherlock shot off inside John’s mouth, his hips rutting forward instinctively, hitting the back of John’s throat hard enough to rock the small man back on his heels. John choked and it made him cough. The cough made him wheeze and the wheeze was complicated by a mouthful of sperm; suddenly John was on his feet, spinning toward the kitchen sink where he vomited loudly for a long minute.

Sherlock stood there with his hands over his burning red face, his pyjamas around his knees, and his quickly shrivelling cock still trailing strings of saliva and semen. _He was going to die of pure humiliation_. John was trying to say something but it came out raspy, pained, and it was too much for Sherlock. Yanking up his bottoms, he turned, grabbed his Belstaff, shoved his feet into his boots, and ran away from 221 B Baker Street without a word.

 


	4. Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has run away in complete humiliation and embarrassment. John deserved better than he got.

Sherlock was so embarrassed. _What was the point of all those years of meditation and practice if he couldn_ _’t even manage to hold his orgasm long enough to allow his lover time to get out of the danger zone or prevent his autonomic reactions from engaging?_ He swore at his penis, cursing it, wishing impotence upon it, told it that he hoped it never got hard ever again. _It had been given a gift and what had it done as thanks? Ruined everything, that_ _’s what it had done._ Sherlock’s nerves were shot. He was strung tight again with remorse as well as anxiety so, with long and fast strides, he lost himself in the shadows of the alleyways, winding his way further and further from Baker Street and John.

Sherlock wandered through Regent’s Park. He pulled a large handful of loose change in his pocket. It was enough for a full pack of cigarettes but there were no stores nearby so he managed to exchange it all for three cigarettes from a rather dangerous looking young woman who had been about to aggressively smoke. She let Sherlock use her lighter and then wandered off into the night. Sherlock sat for a minute, methodically smoking the first cigarette down to the butt and using the last of the heat to relight the second. He stood, and began walking again. He didn’t know what to do. His pyjama covered legs were cold so he found another empty bench and huddled beneath the flaps of his Belstaff to smoke his last cigarette. His eyes were stinging and, since it was dark, Sherlock let the tears slide down his cheeks unannounced. He couldn’t recall being more mortified than he was right then. It was done. _They_ were done.

When his final cigarette was gone Sherlock sat in the dark and experienced a kind of misery he’d never known. _A relationship with John clearly wasn_ _’t possible. How could he ever make this up to John? There was no way in the world to undo what had happened. Everything was as good as over_. Sherlock would have to move out. _It wasn_ _’t fair for John to have to find a new place to live, he was a single parent!_ Sherlock knew he could stay with Mycroft, his room was always available. _It would be better if he could find some kind of appropriately sized box in a relatively dry alley somewhere first. He_ _’d survived rough many times, he could do so again._ Sherlock felt the siren call of narcotics begin to make his nerves begin to sing along. _It would be so easy to fall back into the life, and there were ways that less savoury people to accept payment for products that didn_ _’t involve cash._ Sherlock had never done it but he could. He would if he needed to. “I can smell cigarette smoke twenty metres away, Sherlock! You told me you’d quit...again!”

John’s angry voice shouting unexpectedly out of the darkness made Sherlock curse as well as leap off the park bench, a manoeuvre that would have worked better if his still chilled legs had not fallen asleep. Sherlock tumbled right over and landed face first on the gravel path. “What the hell, John!” _Would his suffering never cease?_ There was just enough light from a distant streetlamp for Sherlock to make out his flatmate glaring down at him, his hands on his hips. Sherlock heard John’s foot tapping on the path, the rhythmic _crunch crunch crunch_ of stone against leather oddly distracting. “How did you find me?”

“Don’t you fucking curse at me, you fucking arse! What the _fuck_ , Sherlock? Why the bloody hell did you take off like that? What if I’d needed help? Can you just imagine how fucking awful it would have been if I’d needed to call 999 or worse, Mrs Hudson? What did I say about leaving me behind?”

Already mortified beyond description and in no way capable of communicating it, Sherlock completely wilted before he ignored everything he wasn’t prepared to deal with as he lay where he was, “Where is Rosie?”

“I called Mrs Hudson, of course.”

“I thought that was the _worse_ option.” _Gravel was pressing uncomfortably into his cheek but that_ _’s what he deserved._

“Well, I didn’t need 999, a glass of water was more than enough, but I still needed Mrs Hudson to look after Rosie while I came looking for you. GPS.” John paused after he waved his mobile vaguely, “Okay, so it wasn’t the most elegant moment in sexual history but it wasn’t all bad, was it? We’re newbies in this area, right? Well, I am, at any rate.”

“ _I made you throw up, John._ Losing control like that doesn’t fill me with a lot of self-confidence or pride.” _This humiliation would stay with him until the end of days._

John immediately said, “Well, that was unusual circumstances, that, and it wasn’t even your fault. I knew to hold your hips still and I didn’t.” John sounded regretful and more astonishingly, penitent! _Why in the universe would John Watson have even a single note of regret in his voice for something Sherlock had personally done?_

“ _You?_ John, you did nothing wrong, it was I…” Sherlock had to protest. _He deserved to be alone and miserable. John should have a better life partner, someone who didn_ _’t make their lover lose the contents of their stomach via sheer ineptitude. John attempting to apologise was just_ _…wrong!_

John stepped close enough for Sherlock to be able to look into his eyes if he’d been able to stop staring at the gravel beneath John’s shoes in shame. John’s voice was filled with sincerity and earnestness. “ _You_ are the person who was having what was probably the first shared sexual experience of your life and _I_ was so smug about it that I forgot the basics. I could have held your hips down with my free hand but I didn’t bother. I knew you were close already but I was so thrilled about having brought you off so quickly I didn’t even consider what might happen if I rushed you through it. Now I’m worried that I’ve put you off sex entirely. You’ve never wanted to do it with anyone before and now you likely never will ever again. That’s on me.”

“I’ll move out.” Sherlock was still filled with misery as he lay on the pathway unmoving. “You can keep the flat. I’ll get a box.”

“A box? What are you talking about?” Sherlock flinched away as John stepped closer still and he heard the soldier sigh gustily, “Come here, you utterly ridiculous man.” Sherlock found himself being dragged up and forward off the path and squeezed tightly. He was released and then a tender hand cupped his jaw. “Are you alright, sweetheart?” The concern in John’s voice combined with the earnest concern made Sherlock’s eyes tear up all over again. _What was wrong with him? Why was he so emotionally unstable?_ “You hurt your beautiful face, my darling.” _John would not stop with the sentiment! Why with all the endearments?_

Sherlock crumpled. He was on the verge of crying again and that was nearly as embarrassing as making John vomit. It was completely out of character _. He didn_ _’t have unruly emotions for exactly this reason. He was a wreck! He should be coldly calculating and not a weeping mess_. Sherlock felt like he was ruining everything he’d waited so long for. Firstly, he was incapable of articulating his feelings in any kind of understandable fashion, secondly, he’d completely failed at being someone’s lover, and thirdly… “Why do you want this with me?” Sherlock couldn’t help how shaky his voice was.

John took his hand and led him down the path once more, making their way home. He wasn’t ignoring Sherlock; it was clear that John was trying to formulate an appropriate response. Sherlock let him think. When they approached Baker Street, he finally began to speak. “When we first met, it was the most astonishing thing to have ever happened to me. It sounds cliché, but you make my entire world go around. I don’t exist properly without you. You’re it for me. I don’t want to be happy with someone if that someone isn’t you. We’re going to have all sorts of problems but that’s okay because we’ll find all sorts of solutions, _together_.”

“John.”

“Sherlock.” John sighed and stopped walking. He looked up into Sherlock’s face with an expression of fond exasperation, “Sherlock, I _know_ this isn’t your area. I know you are going to fumble a lot at first but I don’t think that’s a reason to stop moving forward. It’s all pretty simple.” He smiled softly, “Do you love me?”

“With every bit of myself,” Sherlock responded instantly. _He did. He loved John with an intensity that shook him. There just wasn_ _’t life unless John was in it somehow. The world was only good because of John._ “You’re more important to the Work. I would give up everything to keep you safe, and if I could just have a chance, I would like to try to make you happy.”

John’s eyes were glistening a bit but his smile was unchanging, “Good. That’s...that’s really good. Okay, you love me,” His arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, “I love you.” Sherlock sagged just a tiny bit before he locked his knees to strengthen them, “We’re going to be together for as long as humanly possible. One day you and I are going to be embarrassing Rosie’s dates with nosy questions, or with a little luck, helping her out with her own children sometime in the future. We’ll keep solving crimes until we’re too old or I’m too fat to chase criminals, and you’ll write your memoirs, and I’ll get them published, and then we’ll go on book signing tours where you can mock the intellect of the academics that flock to your table.”

Sherlock’s eyes were feeling stingy again but he was smiling back down at John, “Don’t be ridiculous, John. You’re the author in this family.”

Now a sentimental tear did drip down John’s cheek even if his smile was as warm as before, “You _are_ my family, Sherlock. You’re still my very best friend, and even if you roll your eyes, I’m going to say that you’re also the love of my life.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to do with all the feelings he had inside of himself. They were at their doorstep now, so Sherlock hurried John up to their flat after receiving a dismissive wave from Mrs Hudson’s arm which stuck itself outside her flat door just as they got it. Rosie would stay with her for the rest of the night. With a grateful smirk, he got his soldier safely behind their door before he caught the shorter man up in a deep kiss. Such was his ardour, he completely failed to note the musky scent of the expensive cologne that his brother wore. “Mycroft.” _What was he doing here at this hour?_

The ginger haired bureaucrat was seated on Sherlock’s chair. “My dear brother.” Mycroft’s ever present smirk was for both of them, just as the glare that the doctor and the detective share was for him. Sherlock noted that Mycroft had a large manila envelope placed carefully in front of him on the coffee table. “I was alerted to a potential...domestic disturbance?” Sharp eyes took in Sherlock’s reddened and tear-stained eyes and the blood on his cheek, but also his kiss-bruised lips and their linked hands. His smile was oily and Sherlock wanted to wipe it off, “Before further dramatics ensue, I would like to drop this off and be on my way.” He stood and eyed them both, “I hope you appreciate the rush I put on this _particular_ issue.” With another nod, Mycroft took himself away.

John glared at the tall man for the duration of his presence and continued to glare at the door after Mycroft had gone. Then it was as if all the aggression drained out of the small soldier and his shoulders sagged. “I hate him sometimes but I owe him so much as well.”

“We’ve already paid Mycroft back in blood. We owe him nothing.” Sherlock was tempted to fling the envelope into the fireplace. Instead, he nudged it toward John, “It might be another case. Perhaps it's from Mummy’s law firm regarding the Trust.”

John shrugged but picked the packet up and thumbed it open. He drew out a sheaf of papers Sherlock became alarmed when John’s face paled. The doctor was sitting ramrod straight, his eyes wide with disbelief as well as a large amount of shock, “This isn’t possible.”

“John, what is it? It’s not Moriarty, is it? He’s dead. He should really stop bothering us now.” John wasn’t paying attention, “John?” Sherlock felt a bit of dread now. Whatever was in the package had seriously affected his lover, “John?”

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was cool and collected, unlike the rest of him, “The night... _that_ night...what do you remember about it?”

 _For the love of science! Was it necessary to talk about that now?_ Sherlock was disturbed. _He had thought that he and John were going to continue simply not speaking about that night._ Still, John had asked him a direct question and Sherlock didn’t have it in him to prevaricate, “You were distressed. You broke down and cried. It made me feel horrible. I...I hugged you. You made a mess of my shirt and then…” Sherlock strained. He hadn’t sorted through his memories yet; the gap was still there. In shame, he just confessed, “I was high, John. I’d had a shot of...well that doesn’t matter now, I’m clean again, but that night, I uh…” Sherlock hated filler sounds but he was verbally dragging his feet. _John was more than aware of how far Sherlock had fallen from any sort of grace._ Inside himself he felt a tangle of emotions, a knotted mess of conflicted feeling like shame and indignation, hurt and regret. All of it revolved around that final burning thread, that single bright light, his love for John. “I don’t recall, John. I think we might have…” He blushed scarlet, “I have vague impressions of things we _might_ have done but no concrete recollection nor supporting evidence.”

John was nodding absently. _He didn_ _’t look happy but he also didn_ _’t look angry. He did look very surprised but not furious._ Sherlock briefly reflected on John’s basic character, a man of opposites, always standing with both feet firmly on either side of conflict. John was an eternal enigma, both predictable and unfathomable. Sherlock knew he could never know enough about John Watson. “Do you have any idea what I’m holding?”

“I am unsure, John, and I’m hesitant to speculate. You had a very strong reaction to whatever you’ve learned, but what revelations are on those pages remain a mystery to me.” _Legal documents if the weight of the paper was any indication_.

John fixed his gaze on Sherlock’s face as he handed the sheaf over. Sherlock looked at the first page and nearly dropped the stack. The very first page was a certified copy of an entry to marriage. _A marriage certificate?_ It took a fraction of a second to take in the information carefully penned into the correct locations. According to this, Sherlock and John had gotten married the night of _The Embrace._ Their signatures were clear, recognisable. Sherlock examined his own closely and then John’s. All the indicators were there, the heavy blot of ink where John always seemed to stab the pen onto paper when he first begins to write, and Sherlock knew that his own signature was authentic. He recognised how he shaped his vowels. _How could he not recall signing this?_ There were more papers. Mummy’s Trust information was there but even more shocking than finding out that he was wedded to John was learning that he was legally Rosie’s father as well. An amended Birth Certificate was in with the rest of it. _How had Mycroft managed it all so quickly? What influence had he needed to exert, what favours exchanged?_ According to the attached decree, should anything happen to John, responsibility for Rosie would go directly to Sherlock. Everything went dark.

Sherlock opened his eyes to find that he was laid out on the sofa and that John was pressing a cool damp cloth to his forehead, “Your _wife_ is a fainter.” Sherlock weakly joked.

John’s smile was both fond and pained, “I married a drama queen.”

Sherlock’s heart was thumping uncomfortably. “John?” _Would he as for a divorce? No, there wasn_ _’t time for that. An annulment? That was more possible. Separation of some kind? Likely. John wasn_ _’t gay. He would not want to have anyone know he_ _’d married a man. Did he take exception to Rosie now legally being partly Sherlock_ _’s? How did one un-adopt a baby that you_ _’d forgotten you_ _’d adopted in the first place?_

John had been concentrating far too hard on Sherlock’s forehead but he stopped and looked directly into Sherlock’s eyes, “I don’t remember getting married. I was taking all these anti-depression pills, and sleeping aides, and all sorts of other things instead of taking care of myself. If it weren’t for Molly, I don’t know what would have happened with Rosie.” He sounded as ashamed as Sherlock felt.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say so he settled for rubbing his husband’s arm soothingly, “I don’t know how Mycroft managed all of this.” Sherlock felt a bizarre kind of relief to learn that John was as memory-free as he himself was. It made it bearable, a bit. He looked into John’s eyes, allowing his gaze to wander all over that dear and familiar face. “I deeply regret not being able to recall doing this with you.” He saw the same flicker of regret in John’s eyes and it encouraged him to press further, “Perhaps, if it’s not too onerous, we can recreate certain aspects.”

John’s grin was immediate as well as full of barely concealed eagerness, “Sherlock Holmes, did you just ask me to re-marry you?” Just like that, all the shadows were gone and John shone brightly once more. It was enchanting.

“Yes, I did. Very observant, John, is that a yes?” _They were already technically married. Why was his heart racing? Even if John said no, they_ _’d still remain married, for a while at least._

“It would seem odd to say no, now wouldn’t it?” John was still grinning, and rocking back and forth on his feet in a very pleased manner, “So, who takes whose last name?” His tone was light and teasing. Sherlock glowed inside, knowing he’d made John happy.

“Don’t be ridiculous John, we keep our own surnames.” John’s entire body was involved in expressing his overall delight. It made Sherlock feel almost lightheaded as reality settled in. Somehow they’d decided to get spontaneously married. They’d likely pressured Mycroft into making it happen, and he’d come through with flying colours. For once, Sherlock was grateful for Mycroft’s bureaucratic manipulations.

John stepped forward and Sherlock felt his heart racing. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” John took up Sherlock’s hands in his and kissed Sherlock’s fingertips, “There is no one in the world I want to be married to more than you, and now that I know that we are, I want everyone to know. I want to put up billboards and send word out on the internet, maybe take out radio advertisements, and possibly a spot on the news during peak viewing hours.”

Sherlock’s face was burning off again because John seemed to be speaking the truth, “You’re not gay.”

“Don’t have to be.” John sounded stubborn, “I could be as straight as an arrow and it wouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. For so many years I’ve loved you from a distance, and I don’t want to do that anymore. I thought for so long that you wouldn’t want a relationship like this, or if you did, it could never be with someone like me. Now I want to be able to love you openly, and outright. I want to know that you’re mine and if anyone asks, I want to be able to say that I’m yours. I don’t want anyone to ever doubt who we are, and I don’t want you to doubt either. I’m yours, Sherlock, completely yours, and I will be until the end of my days, and probably beyond. I’m absolutely mad for you, and I have been for years. I’m not a brave man sometimes, and I’ve hidden my feelings from myself for far too long, and look what that’s gotten me. Years of absolute misery and despair, an empty marriage to a person who didn’t really even exist, and nearly losing you once more, but so many other times on top of that. I love you Sherlock, more than I love myself. You’ll always be first, you’ll always be the centre of my world, and you’ll always be my reason for living.”

“What about Rosie?”

“She’s our little girl. We’ll love her and raise her and send her off into the world when she’s ready, but I’ll never go unless you come with me. I want you to be a part of my entire life. I want us to be together in all the ways we can think of, and I hope you want that too.”

Sherlock felt a wave of something wash over him. All his insecurities seemed to vanish. All of his worries seemed to fade away. He felt stronger somehow, sturdier. He felt as if he’d somehow become more real, a finished product instead of just a concept piece. This was _John Hamish Watson_ in front of him. John had declared himself in plain language and had promised his life to Sherlock. A grin spread across his face and the heat that had simmered and ebbed away now came roaring back in full force, “Take me to bed, John.”

“Oh god, yes.” They were kissing now, their bodies rutting together shamelessly as they stumbled to the bedroom. Manoeuvring a bit, they sat on the edge of the firm mattress as Sherlock tried to wrap himself around his lover. John fit so perfectly in his arms. His small body was soft in all the right places and hard in even better ones. Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to do, how to erase today’s failures and turn the experience over. “John,” Sherlock allowed his body to slid off the bed until he was kneeling on the thick area carpet, “I want to try.”

John was looking down at him and the expression on his face was one that Sherlock had never seen before. John looked luminous. He looked as if he were glowing from the inside. His smile was gentle but so happy, and his eyes were bright and soft at the same time, “You sure?” he asked gently, his clever fingers carding through Sherlock’s curls, “You don’t have to.”

“I want this, John, I really want it.” He did. Sherlock wanted to learn all the ways that John was able to feel pleasure, and he wanted to begin immediately. If he practised ardently enough, he could make it so that John never recalled how other lovers had pleasured him, or how Sherlock had made him...no...no...he wasn’t going to think of that right then.

Sherlock made himself look at John as he shrugged out of his high-end button-down, and undid the waist and flies of his trousers. Gracefully regaining his feet, Sherlock maintained eye-contact as he shed every scrap of material that covered him with the exception of his pants. Kneeling once again he shifted his gaze to John’s penis. _It was glorious_. John’s cock was perfect. It was the perfect length, the perfect width, the perfect shade of ruddy rose, and the way the crown cap flared was pure art. Sherlock’s mouth watered as he gently touched John with the tips of his fingers, familiarising himself with the feel of his foreskin, learning how the textures and qualities of John’s perfect penis both felt and tasted.

His doctor was wide-eyed and motionless as Sherlock used the tip of his tongue to explore. He wasn’t licking or lapping, merely tracing all the contours and edges with the warm wet point of it. John had already been hard and long, but he seemed to grow even more so as Sherlock progressed. “My beautiful boy.” Sherlock should object to be called _a boy_ but he found he didn’t actually mind, not when John said it like that. Sherlock took John’s cock in his hand and stroked it for a moment before deliberately slowing his pace, making direct eye-contact, and then allowing the head of it to rest on his slightly extended tongue. John’s eyes dilated and Sherlock felt a surge of joy at his obvious success.

Past experiments, decidedly _unsexual_ experiments, had taught Sherlock many things about himself and his capacities. A brief stint in a travelling circus for a case had allowed him to gain a particular skill that he thought John might very well enjoy. The principles were the same, at any rate, so with a mental shrug, Sherlock decided to just give it a go. Opening his mouth, he carefully completed his initial exploration of John’s penis. Deciding its flavour and feel were highly acceptable, he allowed it to glide deeper into his mouth. Keeping his eyes on John’s face, Sherlock concentrated on the unique feel of fellating someone. It was much more pleasurable than he’d anticipated. Relaxing into the process, Sherlock knelt in front of his husband and began to draw him in deeper.

John was making a strange combination of sounds. He wasn’t speaking very clearly but his tone was a mix of pleasure and concern. Sherlock felt his body react when John’s cock bumped gently against the back of his throat. John’s hand came up and rested on the back of Sherlock’s skull but he wasn’t pulling. His fingers caught up some of Sherlock’s hair but it seemed like he just wanted to steady himself. Sherlock was pleased. He did know some factual information about intercourse, just because he’d never done it in person didn’t mean he was completely unaware of how to go about it. He didn’t care for casual terminology like “blowjobs” but that’s what he was giving John, and that was just how he was beginning.

John gasped loudly when Sherlock took the next step, drawing back, pumping John’s very wet shaft with his hands before replacing his mouth and pushing forward until he had nearly half of John gliding against his tongue. Watching John carefully, Sherlock deliberately relaxed himself and pushed forward again, his jaw as open as he could get it. The head of John’s cock pressed against the back of his mouth, and for a moment, he almost retched but he controlled himself. _This was what he had done to John._ Sherlock made a mental note never to be so careless again. With determination he did it again, pushing himself to accept more and more of John slowly. The soldier was saying some very excited things but Sherlock didn’t have attention to spare. He needed to keep swallowing, to keep pushing, to keep going until his goal was met.

Sherlock finally stopped but only because his nose was pressed hard to the mass of pubic hair on John’s groin. John’s testicles were being gently fondled by one of Sherlock’s hands, while the other on gripped John’s hips firmly to steady himself, “Oh god. Look at your mouth, your throat. You’re killing me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled off reluctantly, but he needed to be clear. “I don’t want you to hold back just because you’re worried about my inexperience. I want this, John.” John nodded, his movements a bit ragged, but his cheeks were beautifully flushed, and his nipples were hard, and his lower lip was red from where John had been biting it, “I love you.”

“Sherlock!” gasped John because right at that moment, Sherlock took John’s cock all the way back into his mouth until his nose was pressed against John’s abdomen once more. It felt strange to have such a large obstruction buried in his throat. It should have felt awful or even made him want to be ill, but it didn’t. It was very different than the practice swords he’d initially learned with. John’s cock was hard but not entirely inflexible. It was warm and velvety, firm and insistent. Sherlock felt powerful because John was making the most delicious noises, and his eyebrows were peaking in the middle as his eyes fluttered open and closed repeatedly, “Sherlock, this isn’t going to last.”

Sherlock rocked back and forth, testing his own capabilities. Breathing was a bit of a challenge, and his body was having serious thoughts in the rebellion department, but Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a man who let his transport boss him around. _If he wanted to deep throat his flatmate_ _’s tremendous cock, then that_ _’s what was going to happen_.

John’s groans were deep and heartfelt, and his testicles were so warm in Sherlock’s palm. Pulling back again, Sherlock took a deep breath and then pushed himself onto John’s cock until his nose was yet again pressed against John’s warmth but then he rocked himself back and forth in short little bursts, causing John to nearly shout with the extra stimulation. Saliva was dripping from the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, but he didn’t care how undignified he might look. John didn’t seem to mind, in fact, the soldier was carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair almost anxiously. Sherlock knew that John wanted more but wasn’t sure how to ask for it so he just gave it.

Sherlock knew from his own explorations where to locate every single sensitive part of the human body. He knew exactly where to apply his tongue, how tightly to grip John with his hand, what the signs were that John was about to ejaculate. Calculating rapidly, Sherlock squeezed the base of John’s cock in a careful pinch, and pulled off, enjoying the dismayed whine that John could not quite stifle. He was feeling smug and proud. John’s taste was particular, and while very unfamiliar, Sherlock couldn’t say he didn’t like it. It was John, and Sherlock adored everything about the smaller man. “Where do you want to come, John?” He asked. He had some ideas, and if they were obligation free for the next several hours, there was no reason not to try and accomplish all of them. “My face? My throat?” He paused delicately, “My arse?”

John swore and seemed to collapse a bit. He was staring at Sherlock’s mouth, his features twitching to try and express a combination of ongoing lust and disbelief. Sherlock wasn’t expecting dismay, and a cold chill filled him. John sat right up on the edge of the mattress and stared down at Sherlock. “We did it.”

“What?”

“We did it once. That night. The night.” He was blinking rapidly, “I remember bits...lube...you were…” John cut himself off. “How could I forget something like that?” He sounded angry with himself.

Sherlock surged upward and kissed John silent. At first, John’s body was rigid and stiff, but then he went all melty again, his arms wrapping around Sherlock’s body, holding him tenderly in the way Sherlock had so long dreamed of. “It doesn’t matter, John, not anymore.”

John looked disturbed and unhappy, two feelings that Sherlock definitely didn’t want John to be having during their intimacies. “You said there was no evidence.”

Sherlock thought back. He hadn’t been in any sort of discomfort apart from the general body ache that was part of his healing. Shame filled him once again as he recollected how simple it had been for him to go right back to street-grade narcotics. After he’d returned from Serbia, he’d been so miserable, so in pain, and so very lonely. He didn’t make much of an effort to resist and Mycroft didn’t try very hard to stop him. His brother had felt it better to allow Sherlock to remain in London to indulge himself rather than to allow Sherlock to run away completely and disappear, a feat he could easily pull off. It got worse slowly until Eurus had happened and then it was over. These weren’t things he wanted to think about right then but obviously, John needed to discuss it, “I did not perceive anything on my own person…” he paused delicately and glanced up at John who was finally putting the clues together, “I don’t believe I was the receiving party.”

“Oh.” John’s voice was small, “So you…”

“Apparently.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

Sherlock felt very awkward kneeling in front of John. The soldier’s erection had taken the moments of neglect to lay back and relax, listing off to the side to rest against the crease between John’s leg and his hip. Sherlock felt exposed and a bit ridiculous. Self-conscious at last, he wiped the spit from his chin, and dragged his discarded shirt over his lap to cover himself. Hanging his head, Sherlock felt bad all over again. He’d penetrated John, effectively losing his virginity, and couldn’t remember more than a hazy impression of any of it. _Had John said yes? Had he molested the man he loved in a drunken one-sided sex-frenzy? Was that why John didn_ _’t recall it? Was he repressing a trauma?_ Sherlock loathed the fact that he could not recall clearly. _One of the most crucial parts of their relationship had come and gone with barely a blip_. “Well that’s just not on.”

“What?”

John hauled Sherlock up onto the mattress with him, somehow twisting them both around so Sherlock was laying back on the pillows with John arched protectively over him. “Here it is, Sherlock. Yes, apparently we both got married to each other and don’t remember. Yes, there’s a good chance we’ve already shagged, but again, no memory.” Sherlock nodded. _What else could he do?_ “Right. So, that’s that then.” John looked down at Sherlock and used a hand to cup Sherlock’s head with great tenderness, “Today is our first day,” he declared, “Today is the beginning of the new everything, okay? Our first everything as _wide-awake-totally-committed-to-each-other-no-secrets husbands_.”

 _Husbands. They were, weren_ _’t they?_ Sherlock nodded, smiling a bit. Trust John to find a better way through the emotional morass. Sherlock thought for another moment and decided that this was the best way. Today was a benchmark, a massive one, a starting point for the newest chapter in their long story together. Sherlock wanted John to be his, exclusively, and he knew just how he wanted to make John feel that first claim, “I want you inside of me.”

John’s smile went a bit crooked, “Yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes, please.” John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock and from there, things went a bit swimmy. John was kissing Sherlock’s throat and behind his ears and it made his toes tingle. John kept kissing his way down Sherlock’s body until he got to Sherlock’s navel, and then John stuck his tongue into it. It made Sherlock draw his knees up and gasp. _That was unexpectedly pleasurable!_

“I need you to turn over, beautiful, alright? I need to prepare you.” Sherlock closed his eyes but twisted himself around. He couldn’t look at anything right then. He needed to focus on every single thing that was happening to him and remember all of it. John helped arrange him so that a pillow was beneath his chest but his bum was high in the air. He dug into the drawer closest to what had become his side of the bed and triumphantly showed of a new bottle of lubricant which ended up on bed next to them.

Sherlock knelt on a towel with his knees apart and felt very exposed and a bit silly. There was cool air flowing against his crease and it was not a familiar sensation. His cock was hard but gravity was making it point straight at the bed and for an odd moment, Sherlock worried that his genitals were unattractive before chastising himself for pointless thoughts. John wasn’t gay. He wouldn’t be turned on by testicles and cocks and anuses. John was just being kind to Sherlock, giving him the only kind of sex they could have but he wouldn’t really enjoy it, not like he did with the women he naturally preferred.

Sherlock almost talked himself out of being there. “Sherlock.” John sounded drunk! His words were thick and a bit slurred, “I have to…just,” Sherlock felt John’s fingers running up and down his cleft, and then John was lifting his bollocks with one hand but pressing against his hole with the other, “I just need…” John shuffled forward on his knees and then Sherlock felt the soft hard heat of John’s cock and balls pressing between his arse cheeks. John rocked his hips, sliding himself up and down, rubbing himself against parts of Sherlock that had never experienced such an intimate touch before. John moved back but his hands were on Sherlock’s bottom. He pushed his thumbs in between Sherlock’s cheeks and pulled them wide, “I want to taste you.”

John pressed his face between his hands, delving into Sherlock’s crease, his hot wet tongue licking and exploring. Sherlock sighed as he felt the rough pad of John’s index finger circling and pressing before being joined by John’s tongue. It was firm and slick, and John used it to tease Sherlock into relaxing and accepting his exploratory efforts. Sherlock tried to keep his breath slow and even but flicks of John’s tongue made caused him to make a large variety of moans and sighs. John began pressing his finger with greater firmness and as Sherlock became accustomed to the strangeness of it, John pressed inside.

He was gentle and slow, first just using the tip of his finger, sliding in and out while he kissed and licked. John sat back a bit, pressing his well-wetted finger deeper. Sherlock felt himself open up for John. He couldn’t imagine being able to do this with anyone else, just John. How could he allow someone to see him like this, to have him like this, to know him like this unless it was John Watson? It couldn’t be done. It would never be done, “More.”

More was provided. John began working in a second finger as soon as the first one was sliding easily. Sherlock moaned even more. It felt weird and lovely at the same time. The in and out tease of John’s fingers was confusing and wonderful as he tried to understand the sensations he was experiencing. John crooked his fingers and deep inside himself, Sherlock felt a strong sensation that was almost uncomfortable in its intensity. He focused intently on it, learning to accept the strangeness because it brought so much pleasure. John only touched it directly once and it had felt as if the doctor had hit him with a jolt of electricity. John shied away from it after, using graceful little strokes around the edges instead before removing his fingers and licking deeply. After he’d indulged himself for a moment, John sat back again, “Ready?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. The feelings John was giving him were wonderful and exciting. He was a bit nervous about the next part but not afraid, “Yes,” and closed his eyes again as John shuffled closer. Sherlock listened to the sound of the lubricant container being opened and then sighed again as John swiped some around his anus before pushing in a generous amount with his finger. “I'm going to…” John seemed to have a difficult time forming whole sentences but Sherlock understood his next move because John was rubbing the warm head of his stiff cock against his very slick and open hole. It caught on the rim twice, and John used his hand to swirl the tip a bit, making Sherlock sigh.

He pushing in slowly, using his fingers to guide his penis to press against Sherlock’s hole. One hand smoothed over Sherlock’s back and hips constantly, urging him to remain relaxed. John rocked shallowly, holding his cock with his hand, plunging in over and over again in gentle little pushes until the first few inches of him were moving easily. After that, John pushed deeper each with each thrust.

Sherlock felt himself giving into John’s loving invasion. It still felt strange and a little bit wrong, his body struggling to accept the intrusion without trying to reject John in some way. The strange feelings began to fade as he got used to the various sensations that made up the experience, the smell of sex, the feel of another body heat inside of him, the way John’s cock pushed him open and the way he closed back up again with each retreat.

John changed his stance, getting to his feet to crouch over Sherlock’s backside. His hands gripped Sherlock’s hips as he pushed back inside and now Sherlock could really feel what the fuss was about. It was shocking and intense but marvellously so. John’s hips swung hard and fast now, his cock plunging deep each time. Sherlock could feel John’s testicles sometimes, pressing against his backside in warm soft slaps. Sherlock could hear himself calling out, his voice low, deep, and desperate. John felt so good inside him like this.

Sherlock reached down and began to stroke himself. This wasn’t going to take long. “Oh god, I’m …I can feel you inside.” John’s sounded shattered, a wreck. “Sherlock. You feel so fucking good.” John moaned several times, his pace quickening, “Sherlock, fuck. I’m close. Sherlock. I’m really close.”

Sherlock’s eyes were squeezed tight. He couldn’t look at anything, not now when he was hanging on the edge of a precipice. John’s cries and questions sparked something within him, “Please, John, I need you. John…John…I’m coming!”

His body was heated from his hair all the way down to his feet. He was covered in sweat. His muscles were so tight that he wasn’t sure why tendons weren’t snapping in protest. Sherlock began to push back, trying to get John to go a bit faster. He had the unintended consequence of John’s cockhead pushing firmly against his over sensitive prostate. Sherlock’s entire body froze in shock before he spasmed, his cock throbbing out come so hard that it almost hurt. “Sherlock, fuck yes, Sherlock.” John was almost laying on his back now, savagely pumping himself inward as hard and fast as he could, “It’s in you, oh fuck, I’m coming in you, I’m coming, fuck!”

A long time later, Sherlock came back to himself. John was still on his back, motionless and breathing easy. Sherlock blinked himself alert and managed to move one arm so that he could stroke John’s hip, “My love?”

“Mmm?” John sounded sleepy. A moment later, “Oh.” John moved himself off of Sherlock, both men wincing as John finally withdrew, “Oh, you’re going to need a hot bath, love.”

“Worth it.” Sherlock was tired now. It was so late and he didn’t care how crusty his arse was right then. John apparently did because after Sherlock failed to get up, the good doctor just went and got a basin of hot wash water and a flannel, giving Sherlock a sponge bath before drying him carefully and covering him up. Sherlock drowsed while John cleaned up and the showered, smiling when his lover climbed back into bed with him.

“Well get Rosie tomorrow.”

“Mmm.”

“Maybe do some shopping.”

“Mmm.”

“Have a family day.”

“Mmm.”

Nothing more was said. Both John and Sherlock fell all the way asleep, replete at last, content and satisfied that their love for one another was not only recognised but reciprocated. One shuffle at a time they wound around one another, loosely clasping their lover while they rested, reluctant to be apart even for sleep. They were together by choice, bound by law, and finally completely happy, better men for belonging to the other in their new beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to make myself feel better and to try and spread some happiness around. The fic is complete and will be updated regularly until completely published.
> 
> https://joanacchi.tumblr.com/ has some the most adorable art ever about Sherlock with Rosie. Just go look. I'd included the link in the comments prior to having coffee and then after coffee, I realised that maybe this would be a more useful location. Seriously, go look.


End file.
